


Life Under the L: A year of letters

by thicklikemud



Series: An Airmail Fairy Tale [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Letters, M/M, Mexico, Moving On, Post-Break Up, Post-Prison, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thicklikemud/pseuds/thicklikemud
Summary: With no prison cell to cramp his style, Mickey Milkovich gets to start over in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The only problem is he has limited funds, no job, barely speaks Spanish, and has no friends or family there. Oh, and he is a fugitive in hiding.He couldn't help but send a note to a few folks back home. Each chapter uncovers a little of Mickey's salty seaside life when he receives letters from Chicago.Excerpt:"I tried to picture you wearing a Forever Lazy and it made me feel equal parts ashamed and excited."





	1. El Sapo

**Author's Note:**

> Words in other languages are hyperlinked. Click for definition.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday, January 19, 2017
> 
> Mickey feels like chatting in English. Ian jots off a half-assed letter before work.

Today was hot like a motherfucker, even by Mexican standards. Mickey wiped the sweat off his forehead and settled into a wicker chair on the dusty bar patio. Meanwhile, the grains of sand that had hitched a ride up his ass crack were now scratching at his fucking taint. And when he screwed up his face in pain, it only caused his sunburned nose to sting and his dry lips to chap. The taste of metal filled his mouth when he swiped his tongue over a particularly nasty split in his lip.

He was all sorts of fucked up now, wasn't he? The motherfucker had no name, no home, no friends, no family, no crazy bitch by his side. His slim fingers nervously twirled a cigarette, ash swept away as dust in the wind. Mickey chuckled softly. Fuck, he realized he was everything Terry told him he would grow up to be -- and by everything, he meant nothing at all.  
  
A few feet away a sun-bleached Mexican flag flapped on the makeshift flagpole at the front of the bar. Meanwhile fellow beach bums strolled through town. Some were holding hands, some were yapping, some were walking together quietly. It seemed he was the only one by himself today.  
  
His waitress served his  _[cerveza](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/cerveza)_ and a small basket of nachos. Her face pulled a dead-eyed, tired smile like her facial features had been worn down by time and erosion. He nodded a weary thanks; his ordinarily razor-sharp tongue was feeling heavy and tired. Mickey had never realized how exhausting speaking Spanish could be.

He almost felt bad for all the times he'd yelled at Svetlana and her band of skanks when they used to speak to him in Russian. But then he fucking remembered that they weren’t so much speaking to him as they were yelling at him. Yeah, fuck guilt. Not that it matters anymore.

Tossing back chip after chip, nacho crumbs and specks of salt fell to his lap like a heavy blanket of Chicago snow. He couldn't believe it but he actually found himself missing snow sometimes. More precipitation trickled down the length of his cold beer. Little streams feeding the lake at the foot of the bottle.

Mickey closed his eyes for a minute and took another drag of his cigarette. When he opened his eyes to tap the ash off, he noticed a toad was sitting beside the green glass ashtray.

“The fuck you looking at?” he scoffed at the toad before taking another deep inhale of his cigarette. Mickey ran his free hand through his black greasy hair and quickly glanced around to see if anyone noticed their conversation.

The toad just sat there, judging him silently.

“I don't see you trying to improve your Spanish either. So why don't you just back the fuck off, ok?” Mickey muttered and ate more chips.

“Ribbet!” the toad mouthed off. Obviously this creature didn't know who it was dealing with. Mickey raised an eyebrow and stared the toad down while sipping his beer.

“You know what, wart-face? Why don't you go down to the beach and tell your asshole seagull friends to leave me and my Pringles alone?” Mickey waved the toad away.

The toad just sat there defiantly.

Mickey looked over his shoulder then turned back to the toad. He thumbed at his lip and leaned toward the small creature. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, “Yeah man, I’d rather hang out here too. Fuck those seagulls, man. Fuck ‘em all.”

The toad hopped once in the brunet’s direction.

“Oh, you like talking shit about seagulls?” he smirked at the toad. “What? Toads and seagulls have some kinda interspecies war going on?” He sipped more of his beer while waiting for an answer.

The toad just sat there silently.

Mickey exhaled a plume of carcinogenic smoke. “My bad, man. That's probably a sensitive topic,” he tapped more ash off his cigarette.

“You eat nachos?” He tilted his basket of nachos toward the amphibian so it could have better look. Mickey took a chip and crushed it between his fingers, letting the dust settle in front of his warty guest.

The toad hopped toward him once more ignoring the nacho dust.

“Oh shit, Warty McFly wants some _cerveza_ huh? Well, why didn't you just fucking say so?”

Mickey tipped his beer bottle in front of the toad and spilled a tiny puddle of his _[Negra Modelo](http://www.crownimportsllc.com/images/nm_header.jpg)_  onto the table.

The toad hopped into the puddle. They drank their beer in comfortable silence as the Puerto Vallarta sun inched closer to the horizon.

When Mickey finished his beer, he threw a few pesos on the table and said, “ _[Hasta mañana](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/hasta%20ma%C3%B1ana)_ , Warty. Tomorrow you're buying the beer.” He stood up, let out a loud obnoxious burp then headed back to the beach alone.

 

* * *

 

Hey,

Really glad you made it to the beach. Sounds nice -- better than nice actually. I've never seen a seagull before but they sound like jerks.

Thanks for the sand and shells. I put them in a jar.

I don't know how you're getting this. Your ex-wife won't tell me anything. She said, "Why you worry? This not your business."

I saw some nice sunsets while riding the bus back home. Nothing as red as what you've seen. Mostly it was wide open sky. The same shit that we saw on the way down.

I gotta get back to work. Be careful out there.

-I

P.S. Pork rinds are nasty. You know that shit's been sitting on the shelf forever right? I bet the bag you bought was older than Yev.

 


	2. Yolo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, February 6, 2017
> 
> Mickey has a finger-lickin' good meal. Ian doesn't wanna lick anything.

It turns out that Warty McFly was a motherfucking mooch who never pays for beer. Mickey didn't mind. He visited the bastard anyway.

After their first encounter, Mickey saw Warty three days in a row. Just like their first meeting, Mickey would offer some of his food to the toad. And just like their first meeting, Warty wasn't having any of it. His little green friend didn't eat rice, beans, tortillas, cilantro, beets, or cheese. No matter what item was presented to Warty, the toad would give him the same unimpressed stare that Svetlana used to give him.

On their third date, while Mickey dangled a small piece of  _[chicharrón](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicharr%C3%B3n)_  in front of the toad, their waitress told him that toads only eat things that move. Mind your own business, he told her. She only swung by his table even more, yapping on and on about feeding the toad some live insects.

“Since when do you see toads eating any of this shit?” the waitress, Joy, sneered. She wiped Mickey’s failed rice and bean experiment off the table.

“Since fuck you, that's when,” Mickey said as he tossed another piece of _chicharrón_ to the toad. Joy laughed and wiped away the piece of pork.

“Assholes like you are the reason I left the states. Stop wasting your food.”

“Real nice,  _[pendeja](http://www.spanishdict.com/translate/pendejo.)_. Well, seeing as me and my asshole are here now, how about you go back to the states and fuck yourself?” Mickey poured some beer onto the table in front of the toad.

Warty and Joy both stared at him. The waitress wiped up the spilled beer and flipped him off.

She was like a fucking mosquito. In between waiting on other tables, Joy flew back and forth buzzing all sorts of unsolicited advice in his ear. Even though she was a pest, she was infinitely better at holding a conversation than Warty McFly. Mickey didn't chase her away if only for the chance to speak to another American.

By the time he finished his meal, he reluctantly realized that he didn't completely hate her. It seemed that Joy didn't completely hate Mickey either. She taught him a few useful Spanish phrases which was kinda nice of her. And they traded a few choice words over their shared hatred of seagulls.

It was twilight when Joy’s shift ended. They stepped out of the bar together under the steely gray sky. Mickey patted his pockets down and pulled out a cigarette, raising his eyebrows. The waitress nodded and pointed over her shoulder toward the back of the bar.

They walked in silence. Mickey leaned against the flaking stucco wall and crossed his ankles. Joy stood facing him hand on hip, shoulders slouched with exhaustion. When they’d smoked their shared cigarette down to the filter he dropped it to the ground and hooked a finger in Joy’s belt loop, lazily tugging the suntanned brunette towards him. She raised a brow and smirked.

Mickey slipped his fingers past the waistband of Joy’s pastel pink shorts. Peeking out of her low cut tank top, Joy’s cleavage was redolent with the perfume of stale cooking grease. The skin under Mickey’s fingertips was soft and smooth and warm, just like Angie Zago’s. He traced small circles on her hips, pressing his fingers into the pillowy flesh every few turns.

“Um, you kinda helped me out with that Spanish shit and whatever. I could, I dunno, return the favor? Maybe help you out?” He chewed his lip.

“Oh,” she gasped quietly. Even as she blushed, Joy parted her legs.

It was quick. It was awkward. It was terribly unsexy. But it wasn't really about a back alley fingerbang or even about debts owed for impromptu Spanish lessons, was it?

It was simply about being two lonely fuckers.

He knew it. She knew it. Fuck, that damn toad probably knew it too.

* * *

 

So a few days later when Joy suggested that Mickey offer English tutoring to local college students, Mickey agreed. He looked forward to speaking to others besides the waitress and the toad. He’d never admit it though. If you asked him he’d claim it was all about the pesos and the free  _[cerveza](https://translate.google.com/#es/en/cerveza)_.

This particular morning, Mickey was having his fifth meeting with a student named Chepe. He walked into Joy’s bar and scanned the room. Chepe was seated at a back table with his friend, Ernesto.

Mickey didn't care too much either way if Chepe’s friend hung out, but Joy really liked it because they'd run up a bigger tab. When Mickey sat down with the boys, Joy came and took their breakfast orders. She laid on the charm thick and syrupy sweet, flashing a pearly white smile at the students. Her sugary spiel made Mickey roll his eyes and inspired a craving for syrup drenched pancakes.

Chepe’s meetings were full of questions about American slang and pop culture. He fussed with his phone looking for a particular instagram post. Reaching across the table he showed Mickey a picture of two girls dancing on a stage with feather boas and a beefy, topless, oil-slathered man. The sweaty faces of the women bore goofy smiles and the unfocused gazes of inebriation.

Mr. Beefcake wore a tiny, light blue banana hammock, coincidentally the same color as Mickey’s eyes. One girl had a cheap plastic tiara on her head and the other had several penis stickers affixed to her shirt. Must have been a bachelorette party. The caption read, “YOLO bitchezzzzz!”

“What is this ‘YOLO’?” Chepe asked.

Mickey chewed on the inside of his cheek and shook his head. “It's stupid. It means you only live once. See, it's an acronym or some shit,” He pointed to the letters on the screen.

“So the meaning is like carpe diem,” Ernesto said.

“Exactly, brainiac,” Mickey nodded and leaned back in his seat. Ernesto's eyes flickered and a small smile crept up on him.

“Oh, you use this expression ‘carpe diem’ in English too?” Chepe asked.

“Yup. Carpe fucking diem is the YOLO of the ancients,” Mickey added, “I don't recommend you say YOLO unless you're a drunk girl dancing with strippers, or just don't give a fuck if people think you’re an asshole. And if you ever spell "bitches" like that, then you are most definitely an asshole.”

Ernesto's subtle smile exploded into a toothy grin. Chepe noticed. He slipped his friend a teasing sidelong glance even as he chuckled at Mickey's advice.

“YOLO. You only live once,” Chepe tossed the words around, committing them to memory.

“Ahh, yes . . . the battle cry of bad decisions,” Joy said. The coffee mugs clattered against the table as she set them down.

“Or the very best decisions,” Ernesto smiled sweetly and stirred some sugar into his coffee.

Chepe threw his hands up and and laughed, _“¡[Híjole](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/h%C3%ADjole), Nesto!”_  

“ _[¡Ay, chico malo!](https://translate.google.com/#es/en/%C2%A1Ay,%20%c2%A1Chico%20malo!)_ _”_   Joy cooed and stood by the table looking Ernesto over.

“You saying you're a fucking risk taker, college boy?” Mickey threw a glance at Ernesto while snatching the sugar. He poured an inadvisable amount of it into his mug.

Ernesto furrowed his brow at the hailstorm of sugar tumbling into Mickey’s black coffee. _[Ay, mierda,](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/%C2%A1Ay%2C%20mierda!)_  that was a fucking lot of sugar. He adjusted his glasses and took a sip of his _[café con leche](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caf%C3%A9_con_leche)_. Over the rim of his cup, he looked at Mickey. Here was Ernesto's opening; carpe fucking diem, right?

“Let’s meet late Saturday morning. I'll show you how I like to spend time. Then I'll treat you to dinner. By the time we finish dessert, you can decide for yourself.” The faint flush creeping across Ernesto’s cheeks belied the confident tenor of his voice.

Joy’s eyes widened in delight. She took a step back behind Ernesto’s line of sight. Her lips parted so she could fellate the imaginary cock she held in her hand. The bitch then winked at Mickey and sauntered back to the kitchen, thighs jiggling the whole way there.

At the same time, Chepe jumped up from his seat. He blurted out something about taking a phone call. It must’ve been some sort of telepathic call, cause that squat motherfucker left his damn cellphone on the table.

The fuck had just happened here?

Mickey’s brows were drawn. The stunned man ran his tongue over an odd molar on the left side of his mouth. When that shit got infected years ago, Terry had broken him off just enough cash for the emergency root canal but not for the cap. Good ol’ Terry -- giving Mickey barely enough so he’d survive but no more. His tongue searched for the smooth, flat filling of this half-assed dental procedure.

Mickey quickly shifted his eyes over the other patrons’ tables. They were surrounded by the din of chatter, mounds of greasy omelets and  _[frijoles](https://translate.google.com/#es/en/frijoles)_ , and slurping of coffee. The bottom of Ernesto’s coffee mug scraped against the worn formica tabletop. The college student leaned forward, clasping his hands and catching the other man’s attention. Mickey turned back to him and scratched the bridge of his nose.

With eyes shining like onyxes and a devilish grin, Ernesto whispered, "YOLO.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey,

I was shitting bricks over that first letter. Still paranoid. But you're still out there, sandy balls and all, so I guess you've got it figured out.

You know, Mick, you really shouldn't take food from strangers. It's kinda a thing they taught us in school: Don't take candy or cum-coated tacos from strangers, unless it's Halloween then you can swallow all the candy and cum you want. Remember?

It's rather ungentlemanly of you to kiss and tell your romantic fingerbanging escapades. But since we're on the topic -- did I tell you about the time I did the deed with a girl on the L? No, not _on_ the L. She was a girl on the L. And we went back to her place to make sweet, sweet, heterosexual love.

Hated it.

Maybe it would’ve been more fun if we’d done it right there on the L. Even if the train ride didn't improve our banging at least I wouldn't have had to pay another fare to get back home.

Things are weird at home. Things are weird with the boyfriend. I'd rather just work nonstop. It seems chaotic but I know what to do and I do it well. Life outside of the ambulance seems more confusing to me.

 

An official member of the vagina-fuckers club,

Ian

P.S. We should’ve fucked on the L.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey 37years, if you're out there this was for you. I once told ya I'd toss YOLO in a chapter and I've made good on my promise. ;)


	3. La Familia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, February 14, 2017
> 
> Mickey and Ian consider family relationships.

“Oh, you know . . ." Nesto waved his hand dismissively.

Mickey's raised brows said he didn't.

Nesto sighed, “I have an uncle who lives in Spain. There is an area where there are many women who came from Russia for jobs and stayed when they got married.”

“So your aunt is Russian. Ok,” Mickey shrugged.

“Uh, no, but she has some Russian family. There are some cousins, extended family who can speak Russian, so one of them taught me a little,” he shrugged noncommittally.

“Why do you look so . . .” Mickey raked his eyes over Nesto who was rubbing his neck and avoiding eye contact.

What was with this fucking guy? He was being so shifty. Then it hit him.

“ _¿[Neta](http://www.spanishdict.com/translate/neta)_ , Nesto?” Mickey groaned, “ _[Muy sucio](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Muy%20sucio)._ ”

“ _¿[Sucio? Por qué](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%BFSucio%3F%20Por%20qu%C3%A9%3F)?_ ”

“ _¡[Sí, sucio](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1S%C3%AD%2C%20sucio!)!_ ” Mickey crossed his arms and smirked. He ran his tongue over his old patched up tooth and nodded knowingly, “ _¿[Tu primo, eh](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%BFTu%20primo%2C%20eh%3F)?_ ”

“ _[Sí, mis primos hablan ruso](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/S%C3%AD%2C%20mis%20primos%20hablan%20ruso.)._ ”

“That's not what I meant, Nesto.”

“What do you mean then?”

“Ya fucked your cousin.”

“What? _[Guapo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Guapo), no_!” Nesto said.

“So, you telling me that no backdoor banging occurred between you and your Rusky cousin?”

“It wasn't that way.”

“I think it was exactly that way. The cousin-fucker doth protest too much,” Mickey's eyes twinkled.

Nesto burst out laughing. He covered his face with one hand.

“ _[Mira, guapo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Mira%2C%20guapo)_. He was my cousin’s cousin. His mother's side of the family.”

“Jesus Christ, Nesto. What the hell did your cousin teach you that got you so hot and bothered? You know your kids are gonna have like ten heads or something.”

“Kids? I think you have a profound misunderstanding of male anatomy!” Nesto fought back more laughter. “He was not my cousin. Also, if he was, there are plenty of societies where relationships between cousins are accepted.”

“Yeah, and I once shanked a bitch behind bars cause he tried to take my Jell-O. Doesn't mean I can go to the nearest schoolyard and try that shit."

“ _[¿Cómo?](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1C%C3%B3mo!)_ ” Nesto’s eyes widened, “What is this foolishness?”

“My point is, you can't go around throwing your cock into every one of your cousins just cause some caveman painted a mural of the Flintstones having an orgy.”

“You are terrible,  _[guapito](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/guapito)_ ,” Nesto laughed.

“ _¡[Ay, primo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1Ay%2C%20primo!)!_ ” Mickey moaned in mock ecstasy.

“Fuck you.”

The guys looked at each other across the table and laughed. Nesto grabbed a couple of nachos and threw them at Mickey. The American ducked and the nachos landed on the patio. Seagulls circled overhead eyeing the snacks.

“ _[Камень](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#ru/en/%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%BC%D0%B5%D0%BD%D1%8C)_ ,” Nesto said.

“Fuck's that?” Mickey leaned back in his chair, sloppily tossing some nachos into his mouth.

“The first word he taught me in Russian,” Nesto smiled softly looking over Mickey's shoulder toward the boardwalk. “It’s a stone or rock. Maybe both. I forget exactly.”

“That’s all it took, huh? So he showed you a fucking rock and you just whipped it out?” Mickey motioned toward his crotch.

Nesto smiled but ignored Mickey's teasing, “He was very nice. Smart and funny. He was very kind to others. I really liked that a lot.”

Mickey's smile faded as he studied Nesto’s face. He asked, “You, uh, you fucking love him or something?”

Nesto turned back to Mickey, surprised by the serious question. “Uh, no, he was only visiting for two months. It was nothing serious. But maybe I could've loved him with more time. Who knows?”

They sat quietly for a minute. Nesto was still wearing that goofy Mona Lisa smile, probably reminiscing about fucking his quasi-cousin on top of a rock or some shit. Is this how Valentine's day dates were supposed to go - reminiscing about former partners? Mickey dipped some nachos into the watery salsa, feeling a nagging tightness in his gut.

“ _[Сука](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#ru/en/%D0%A1%D1%83%D0%BA%D0%B0)_ ,” Mickey spoke while eating, “That was the first word she taught me.”

“[ _Qué romántico_.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/Qu%C3%A9%20rom%C3%A1ntico) I'm surprised you're not still married,” Nesto said drily.

“Well, not everyone gets some grand love affair like you and your knight in shining armor.”

Nesto shook his head and smiled. “What attracted you to her?”

Mickey cleared his throat.

“Nothing, really. It wasn't that kinda relationship. I wasn't in love. Terry wanted me to do it. Uh, father, you know,” Mickey’s blue eyes flitted over to the boardwalk, the sand, the cloudy sky, anywhere but Nesto’s face.

“It was an arranged marriage.”

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey scratched the bridge of his nose, “yeah, it was kinda like that.”

“Did she ever fall in love with you?”

Mickey furrowed his brow. No one had ever asked him that question. He'd never considered it on his own either. It never mattered to anyone how Svetlana felt about getting married. She was knocked the fuck up; what’s love got to do with it?

“No, she had someone else,” Mickey shook his head.

Mickey's gaze fell on a small seagull standing on the table across from them. It shit on the table and flew off in a frenzied rush. Nasty motherfucker, leaving that mess for someone else to take care of.

He remembered the last conversation he and Svetlana had in the Milkovich home. She insisted that Ian not come home after running off with Yevgeny, that it wasn't safe anymore.  Mickey felt his head spin. How could she have forgotten so easily?

Wasn't Ian still the same person who ate baked eggs with Svetlana, who kissed their cheeks softly each morning, who picked up a few Russian phrases, who took care of them? Ian was family; and he should and would come home. Fuck Svetlana for not remembering any of this while Mickey was drowning in these memories. He told his wife to pack her shit if she didn't want Ian to return, so she did.

Svetlana was right, though. There would be no joyful family reunion. Ian never came back home.

“She loved our son. She would do anything for him,” Mickey remembered.

“Oh, you have a son?” Nesto was surprised. Mickey hadn’t mentioned a child until now.

“Yevgeny,” he nodded slowly, a twisting feeling in his gut again.

Mickey had argued with Svetlana while Ian was on the lam with their child. She was terrified. They both were. He told her they wouldn't call the cops, so she didn't.

But why didn't she? His then wife could’ve very easily called the cops whether he liked it or not. It's not like Mickey tied her down. Not that he could even if he tried -- no one could tie a woman like her down. Yet no matter how wild and furious her eyes were, he knew she wouldn't make that call.

Since when did Svetlana listen to anyone else when it came to their boy? Since when did Svetlana not put Yevgeny above everything and everyone? 

Fuck.

“She wasn't in love with me but I guess she loved me. There were some things she did. It was a big fucking sacrifice for her but she knew it meant a lot to me,” Mickey realized.

He felt a tickle in his nose and sniffed. He wasn't gonna be a fucking bitch weeping salty tears into his salsa like all the other loser gringos stumbling through town.

Mickey shook his head in amazement, “Shit. She kinda fucking loved me.”

 

* * *

 

Hey Mick,

Thanks. I didn't say anything before cause I didn't want you to worry about things you can't fix.

I'm not sure how I feel about Monica being gone. She was always fucking gone so you'd think I'd be an expert by now but I'm not. A lot of times I wondered if she cared about us. How could she when she was never around, right?

But she always came back. We always knew she'd come back. Maybe that counts for something. Shit.

She left me and the others some stuff. A kind of fucked up junkie deadbeat mom inheritance. I'm not sure what to do with it yet. Maybe I'll just put it in a jar next to your beach sand.

-Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend from Spain once mentioned that there is an area of his country with many Russian women who came for work, but I can't remember the name of the area!


	4. Juicy Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday, February 17, 2017
> 
> Mickey feels sorry for watermelons. Svetlana is tired of the deadbeat baby daddy game.

The gray, dead fetus lay on a bed of used cigarette butts. Shriveled, dry, stiff. Mickey traced his finger along its umbilical cord as smoke rushed from his nostrils. Mexican health officials are some sick fucks.

Was it really necessary to plaster gruesome photos on cigarette packages? And who the hell gave them this fetus for the photo shoot? Mickey flipped the pack from hand to hand.

He remembered wishing Svetlana would've just had an abortion. Every night he would settle into their marital bed, head spinning as he monitored the growing fullness of her belly. She would lie on her side, her sea green eyes expectantly gazing into his blue eyes. What the fuck was she searching for?

She would take his hand and place it against her belly before she kissed him good night. And each and every time he felt a wave of nausea. He didn't want her. He didn't want it. He didn't want a child.

But Svetlana looked forward to this baby, even though it meant she would live in that shithole house. Even though it meant she'd be married to a fag. Even though it meant her life would basically be over.

Often he couldn't sleep. He'd sit and watch her dozing peacefully. Sometimes Mickey could hear her soft whispers, and catch a glimpse of her smile as she murmured the words, " _[мой ребёнок.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/ru/My%20baby)_ " Svetlana's dream was his fucking nightmare.

“ _[¿Qué onda güey?](https://translate.google.com/m/translate)_ ” Chepe’s slapped a hand on the smoker's shoulder breaking his trance. Mickey instinctively threw up his arms ready to defend himself if necessary. He exhaled deeply when he saw it was just assface Chepe.

“I'm good," Mickey lied, "I'd be better if you stop sneaking up on me like that. ¿ _[Qué pasa](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/What's%20up)_?” Mickey rubbed the back of his neck and yawned.

Arm in arm with Chepe was a slender young woman. Her thick hair was the same rich shade as the sticky blue recycling carts that lined the back alleys of Chicago. Blue tresses flapped in the wind like the palm fronds above.

“This is my friend Mariana. She may want to begin practicing English with you too. So I wanted to introduce you both. She is a classmate from my university. She is studying art.”

“Artist, huh? Yeah, I could fucking tell,” Mickey said looking over her blue hair and the dried paint on her fingertips.

Mickey got up from the bench he was sitting on. Chepe’s lesson would take place as they strolled along the beach. On beautiful days like this, Mickey was grateful for such an easy hustle although he knew he would need to come up with something more lucrative soon.

“El Malecón trumps any other boardwalk in the world. This right here? These palm trees, these colorful sculptures, the ice cold beers, those fucking pelicans. All of this? It’s what makes El Malecón the fucking Cadillac of _[caminando](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/caminando)_.” Mickey grinned as he stretched his arms above his head.

He’d seen neither beach nor boardwalk before in his life so he was straight up talking out his ass. But it didn't matter. He was getting paid to flap his gums.

Chepe smiled at his friend, “Doesn't he speak English so beautifully?”

“ _[Sí, y se ve hermoso también](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/yes%20and%20he%20looks%20beautiful%20too)_ ,” she winked and stuck her tongue out at Chepe.

“Alright, alright. _[Solo inglés, por favor](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/English%20only%2C%20please.)_ ,” Mickey said with big round American vowels bursting with juice at every syllable.

Chepe smiled at Mickey, “Your English is beautiful. It's very exciting and lively especially after years of studying boring books.  _[Pero](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/pero)_ , your Spanish is like this video I saw on YouTube. A guy has a mallet and, uh, _[una sandía](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/una%20sand%C3%ADa)_.”

Chepe furrowed his brows then turned to his friend, “ _[¿Cómo se dice, Mariana?](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%BFC%C3%B3mo%20se%20dice%2C%20Mariana%3F)_ ”

“He has a watermelon,” Mariana added, brows furrowed in confusion. Where was Chepe going with this story?

“Yes, a watermelon. He hits the watermelon and juice and fruit goes everywhere," Chepe gestured wildly with his hands.

Mickey knew exactly what Chepe was talking about. It was an old comedy skit even when Mickey was a kid. Still, he could picture that mustachioed freak bludgeoning a watermelon as if it were yesterday. Succulent red fruity flesh burst open and ruined, drenching the audience like afterbirth from a delivery gone terribly wrong.

Mickey used to feel annoyed seeing that shit. It wasn't that he didn't understand the urge to strike out. He liked breaking things too -- coffee shop windows, knuckles, noses, whatever. But why waste food? That's what bothered him. Only people who've never been hungry could find such asinine jokes amusing. 

“His name was Gallagher," Mickey said. "Guy had little beady eyes and a big mustache, right?”

“Yes!” Chepe laughed.

“It's kinda disturbing, right? I mean, those watermelons had some sort of purpose and I doubt that purpose was to be smashed to pieces and laughed at,” Mickey said.

“Well, I don't want to say it's disturbing because I said your Spanish is like this. Maybe you will not speak to me again if I call your Spanish disturbing and worthy of laughter,” Chepe demurred.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, funny guy,” Mickey chuckled. He knew his Spanish sounded stupid. His cellmate Damon used to always talk smack about it.

Damon would toss the prison's stained paperback Spanish study books at Mickey’s bed, saying, “ _[Vato](http://en.bab.la/dictionary/spanish-english/vato)_ , you not getting any play with a thick ass accent like that. I'm telling you, they dicks’ll go limp. And if you can't get no _[pau pau in the culo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/pau%20pau%20in%20the%20culo)_ , you better just stay fucking the other  _[gabachos](https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.urbandictionary.com/define.php%3Fterm%3DGabacho%26amp%3Dtrue)_ in here.”

Mickey’s big fat American accent was one of the reasons he chose Vallarta. He wanted to be where there were other English speakers and this town had plenty of them in Gringo Gulch. He nearly shit himself laughing at the name but then he thought about the neighborhood name Chinatown and realized they do the same thing in Chicago.

The second reason he chose Vallarta was cause of his dick. The city has its own kind of Boystown neighborhood with the equally stupid name Zona Romantica. He figured it would be safer since he wasn't trying to get fagbashed in Mexico. Who was he gonna turn to if that happened? _[La Policía](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/La%20Polic%C3%ADa)_?

And when he read that Puerto Vallarta was in Jalisco state, the home of tequila, well, that just convinced him it was meant to be.

“Maybe the watermelon’s purpose was to show you what a shame it is to waste our potential,” Mariana mused. “And by being wasted, they’ve fulfilled their goal. So they actually have not been wasted at all.”

“So Gallagher smashing a fucking watermelon was fate?” the American asked with eyebrows raised.

“Maybe. Who really can say?” Mariana shrugged and laughed.

“No. It's not so profound, Mariana. It's just about a man hitting sweet fruit with  _[un palo grande](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/La%20Polic%C3%ADa)._ ” Chepe thrust his hips and humped the air. "Yeah! Big stick!"

“Oh, in the US, is smashing watermelons a metaphor for sexual relations?” Mariana inquired wide-eyed.

“ _Palo grande!_ " Chepe continued shamelessly humping the air as they walked.

"No but Americans did make a movie where a guy fucks a warm apple pie," Mickey yawned again. "Damn, if I had all those watermelons, I would spike them with some vodka, eat them on the beach, then enjoy a nice long  _[siesta](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/siesta)._ ” 

“Good idea. I want to make a watermelon salad with feta cheese. I saw the recipe in a magazine,” Mariana said.

“I would use my watermelon to make a cell phone charger. YouTube has a video about it,” Chepe said.

Mickey looked over his shoulder at Chepe and squinted. “Yeah, ok Chepe. Why do you spend so much time watching watermelons on YouTube?”

"I like sweet things," Chepe drawled lasciviously.

"I like 'em sweet, too," Mickey muttered, reaching down and touching his right thigh. The scar was still sensitive after all this time.

 

* * *

 

To rainbow jailbird who suck penis on nice beach while I suffer in cold and take care of child,

Even though you not here, Yevgeny is growing like you every day. He bites me when I tell him something he doesn't like. He puts his angry face very close to mine and growls. Very small and quarrelsome like you.

One day we were at work and he heard a guy say “fuck you.” The boy was laughing so much, I almost think he understand what it means. Maybe he still remembers hearing you say this every day.  He is like a magnet pulled to crude language.

The carrot is helping with babysitting and Yevgeny bite him too. Probably his boyfriend will see the marks and think he took another lover. I have feeling boyfriend is unhappy about him watching Yevgeny. But I don't ask, and Howdy Doody don't tell.

I told Yevgeny that you talked nonsense about frog so he drew one for you. Pretend you are not deadbeat dad for once. Send letter to your child.

  
Svetlana


	5. Mi Casa Es Tu Casa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, February 28, 2017
> 
> Mickey remembers his first day in Puerto Vallarta. Iggy daydreams of the sexy honeys at the beach.

Joy wasn't stupid. She knew Mickey was only fucking around with her to have a place to sleep. Mickey felt a little bad for doing Joy like that but he just wanted to hold onto as much of his money -- Ian’s money -- as possible. And if he stuck himself and other objects inside her pussy, he knew on those nights he had a free place to sleep and shower. Sometimes she'd even make him breakfast.

The first few times they'd fooled around Joy smiled coquettishly and whispered to him while nuzzling her nose in the crook of his neck. Mickey was kinda shocked that a woman who seemed so rough would be so gentle with him. He almost thought Joy would be a little more like a praying mantis and bite his head off during sex.

Pretty soon Joy must've realized there was no grand romance to be found in Mickey. It must’ve been around this time she realized she was just a chump and Mickey was just a beach bum. From then on the heat in her gaze was snuffed out, like that old 80s commercial where a match is extinguished by a fucking padful of hemorrhoid medication.

Once Mickey came back from his magical ass-eating date in the forest with Nesto, Joy didn't seem too interested in fucking around with him at all. She’d still invite him over for beer and restaurant leftovers, but she stopped trying to grind on his crotch. He guessed that made them friends of some sort but he still wasn’t exactly clear on what that meant.

Until then, Mickey had put people into two groups. You were either family, or you were other. Or you were like Terry, Svetlana, and Yevgeny -- a strange Brundlefly hybrid of familial obligation and othered fear. The only other friend he’d had in Mexico was Warty McFly and that son of a bitch never had any money when it was his turn to buy the beer. He was also a fucking toad.

That night they ate some reheated beef stew Joy brought home from the bar. When they began yawning more often than they were insulting each other, she tossed him a frilly pillow scented with the lavender vanilla shit she loved to spritz all over the linens. “The couch is yours, clean up after yourself, just chip in for groceries and the internet,” she told him as he caught the pillow. And like that it was settled between them, Mickey now had a place to lay his head.

Crashing on Joy's couch wasn’t as comfortable as sleeping in her bed but he sure as fuck wasn't about to complain. It felt better than some of the other places he’d slept since going on the run -- cars, cheap hostels, and even the beach.

In fact, the beach was where he’d slept on his first night in Puerto Vallarta. After having fantasies about what  _[la playa](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/la%20playa)_ would be like for so long, he just stared at his surroundings until sunset faded into dream. Before dozing off, Mickey had run his fingers through the sand, scared off the children selling trinkets and watched some buff men in tiny banana hammocks playing volleyball.

Sipping on the tequila he had bought just for this moment, Mickey was blown the fuck away. The light blue sky stretched on forfuckingever. And then there was this big fucking red ball that just sat real low in the sky. Fucking gorgeous, man. Red as fuck. Freeing.

Just like Ian.

Until that moment sitting on the beach in front of mother nature’s giant firecrotch in the sky, it had been surprisingly easy to put his past life behind him. He’d barely thought about Ian once he got a couple of hours into Mexico. It's probably because he was fucking wrapped up in not dying and shit. And once his nerves settled down, he concentrated on the hunt for the right beach and the best tequila.

But there it was. Mickey got his beach, his tequila, and his Ian. Just not the way he’d dreamed of. And like he’d done each night in prison, he lightly brushed his fingertips over the misspelled tattoo on his chest and drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Yo Mickey,

You good out there? You fucking better be, man. I can't believe you did it, you crazy fuck. The Alibi assholes were placing bets on how long till you’d be forced to return. I said there's not a chance in hell that you were gonna be found before Valentine's day. Thanks Mick. You made me a fuckton of money.

No one from the fam has ever traveled south of the border. It must be fucking niiiiiiiice bro. I know you don't swing that way, but how are the honeys? One day, I'll get my ass down there. I’ll find me some sweet  _[señoritas](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/se%C3%B1oritas)_ and just drop my load all up and down the fucking coastline.

Hey, Mandy checked in last week. She’s doing alright. She’s gonna visit in a few months. Yes, she’s still hooking. You knew that, right? But it's much fucking better than the stable you ran. She’s looking like the kind of girl you take to Broadway shows and feed caviar or whatever the fuck these rich tricks eat.

Thanks for writing, bro. I was so fucking happy, you don't even know. Nearly shit my pants when I got your letter.

Take care of yourself.

Yours,

Iggy


	6. Mercenaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, March 14, 2017
> 
> Mickey gets humped by a tourist. Ian gets punched by a kid.

“I'm not hungry anymore.” Nesto stood up and threw his utensils down. He began to walk away.

“Shit. You fucking serious?” Mickey raised his brows, “You gonna stiff me on the bill?”

“Unbelievable,” Nesto grumbled. He abruptly turned back to the table. He pulled out his wallet and tossed some pesos on the table.

Nesto sighed, “You were more concerned that I would leave without paying than you were that I'm leaving?”

Mickey swallowed, “I told you, I don't -- I don't fucking have what you want.”

Nesto hung his head and walked off a second time. Mickey sullenly ate the rest of his eggs, then he ate what was left of Nesto’s fruit salad because, fuck it, it was there. But it's that kind of thinking that got him into this mess in the first place.

It wasn't like he’d been cruising for dick the night before. Mickey was just strolling down El Malecon at dusk, checking out a new nasty cigarette health warning pic under the sodium light. A few minutes earlier, he'd just finished reading Ian’s letter and he knew. Mickey just fucking knew.

Ian had dropped his boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, whatever. For all his inconsistencies, Ian could be such a predictable fuck sometimes. And how did Mickey know? Well, fuck someone for long enough and eventually _[sabes lo que sabes](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/sabes%20lo%20que%20sabes)_.

Then out of nowhere, it was there. Rather, he was there.

A tourist tripped and fell into Mickey, knocking them both into a palm tree. “I'm so sorry,” he purred as he softly brushed invisible dirt off Mickey's strong bare arms. Smirking lips and twinkling eyes offered to make it up to Mickey by buying him a beer. Neither of these really swayed Mick's dick but the guy did have red hair. Not as intense as Ian’s but fucking red enough.

It was really obvious to Mickey that this was no innocent accident. He could tell the tourist was itching for an international lay to brag to his friends about. And if Mr. Horny Tourist got his way then Mickey would get to live forever as a snappy quip jotted down on a fucking postcard. An ode to Mickey's thick, shot-scarred ass would share real estate with organic grocery lists on the fridge of one of his pruney queen friends. Mickey knew the deal and ordinarily he’d love nothing more than to tell this kind of asshole off.

But fuck it, who doesn't like free beer? And fuck it, he always did like looking at redheads. So fuck it, it's not like he had anything better to do.

Several rounds of beer later, they slurred a few sloppy insults at each other and lumbered down to the beach. “Fuck seagulls!” they screamed in unison at the night sky. When a seagull swooped too close to their heads, Mr. Horny Tourist tackled Mickey to the sand. It was some G.I. Joe rescue mission kinda bullshit and in that moment Mickey sobered up for a second and fucking missed Ian -- his stupid red hair, his stupid army fetish, his stupid fucking everything.

Mickey was snapped out of his thoughts by the desperate grinding of Mr. Horny Tourist’s hips against his own. “The fuck, bitch? Seagulls make you horny or something?” Mickey grunted, raised eyebrows obscured under the darkness of night. The tourist chuckled and began slurring what must've been intended as dirty talk. Or maybe he was just talking about seagulls. Who the fuck even knows?

Mickey squeezed his eyes tightly. He tried to ignore the yammering of the man grinding against him and clenched his jaw, feeling sand crunch between his teeth. But he found it was impossible to drown the chatter out. “Will you please just shut the fuck up and take off your pants already?” Mickey spat out.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew Nesto would be . . .  he didn’t know actually, but he knew Nesto wouldn't be feeling too fucking good about it. And he was right. “ _[¿No eres mi novio?](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/Aren't%20you%20my%20boyfriend%3F)_ ” Nesto whispered, face utterly wrecked. Mickey couldn't help but think of mallet pounding watermelon, insides splattered, sweetness spilt.

But he went through with this bad idea anyway, cause Mickey was not a fucking quitter or YOLO or some other shit like that. And if this tourist would just stop this incessant drunken babbling until Mickey got off, maybe he could pretend. Mickey could lick his lips and pretend that he was tasting a familiar sweetness instead of gritty foreign sand. He could shut his eyes and pretend to breathe in the dank musk of his old bedroom instead of putrid loneliness and expensive cologne. He could pretend for just a little longer that moving forward didn't mean moving on.

 

* * *

 

Hey Mick,

For the first time in my life I went to a protest. Trevor’s really into that sort of thing. He said we have to “send all those pampered, entitled, rich boys a clear message that we won't stand for state-sponsored violence executed in the name of capitalist, corporate overlords.”

Actually, it might've been Frank who said that.

Afterwards, we hung out by the lake and I finally paid enough attention to notice the seagulls. Jesus, they really are fucking assholes. I threw pebbles at them and each time I got one of them I thought, this is what you fuckers get for messing with Mick and his Pringles. Even after all this time, I'm still a pretty good shot.

Once in a while I wonder what I’d be doing if I were still in the army. Mostly I wonder this when I'm feeling sorry for myself. I guess if I were still in the army I wouldn't be sitting on my couch with Yev trying to punch me in the balls.

Like most bad ideas (and sexually transmitted diseases), this was something picked up from the Alibi. The Alibi assholes taught Yev a game called Mercenary. Tommy’s team plays against Kermit’s team, and Yev is the mercenary.

The teams send Yev to sneak attack the other team by punching their nuts. They pay the little mercenary in high fives and mini candy bars. Once it's time for Yev to leave, they tally the number of lucky strikes and the losing team buys the winners a round of drinks. It must really fucking suck to have a mini-mercenary punch your dick then have to buy beer for the asshole who ordered the hit.

Svet hates it because he's developed a real sweet tooth and a bad habit. Now whenever Yev wants candy he punches us in the crotch.

 

-Ian

P.S. When I told Svetlana, “Aww, he’s a little ball buster like you, mama bear,” she offered to introduce my genitals to a sledgehammer. Does she even own one?


	7. Agua Sucia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, March 27, 2017
> 
> Mickey gets punched by a tourist. Ian sees a penis. Svetlana hides her matches. Yevgeny takes liberties with his beach drawing.

“You’re a horrible person and you smell like ass!” the sun-baked tourist swung his fists wildly and sloppily.

Mickey snorted, “And you smell like your liver is pickled. Think it's time to go to rehab, Winehouse.”

Mickey grabbed the drunk spring break partier by one shoulder while the cook, Nacho, grabbed him by the other. The unruly kid flailed and knocked over a cup of juice and a plate as they escorted him outside of the bar. Great, now someone’s gotta mop up this jerkoff’s mess. Since he was lowest on the totem pole, it'd probably be Mickey who had to do it -- heavy mop sloshing dirty water in a bucket, exchanging juice for sediment on the bar floor.

Before slumping on the patio in a crumpled alcohol-soaked heap, the rowdy fuck threw one last wild punch. The wayward fist landed hard against Mickey's cheek and drew blood. If Mickey’d known that working at the bar during Spring Break would result in blood loss, he would've told Joy to take this job and shove it up her cooch.

“ _¡[Mierda! ](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1Mierda!)_ Your fucking face,” Nacho hissed.

“Shouldn’t talk, Nacho. You're not too much of a looker, yourself,” Mickey grumbled. Nacho muttered some Spanish insults but tossed him a handkerchief anyway. The bleeding man sopped up the blood and pressed the split skin. The handkerchief smelled like the sweet perfume of Nacho’s side piece and the rank lard of the kitchen.

Joy stepped out of the bar and gasped, “Fucking shit, Salty. Your face is busted open.”

“Yeah, it's my fucking face, Joy, I kinda fucking noticed that but thanks anyway,” Mickey shooed her away when she reached for his chin. “It’s fine, Florence Nightingale. Not the first time someone's punched me. Sure it won't be the last.”

Joy turned to the drunk man on the floor and cursed him in Spanglish. She pressed her hands into his flank and began to roll his limp heavy body to the boardwalk under the shade of a palm tree. The men saw her lift her foot as if she would kick him. It seems she changed her mind and settled for slapping his chest repeatedly with her pad of checks.

Upon returning to the patio, she sternly said, “Drunk American tourists sleeping on the patio is bad for business.” Mickey smirked. Joy was a fucking weirdo but would probably be good to have by your side in a fight.

You know who was real good for that? Fucking Damon. The only problem was that Damon often liked starting fights as much as he liked settling them. Lucky for them, Mickey had an out. He’d been hooking up with a guard skank and she used to cover their asses. After a while the other prisoners caught on and Mickey became untouchable, the guard made sure of this.

The guard planned to run off with the prisoner after the escape. Of course, he never contacted her again. Once in a while he’d suddenly be struck by a vision of her waiting at their meeting place _[al mediodía](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/al%20mediod%C3%ADa)_  just as they’d discussed. Her dark green eyes would be cautiously scanning the area for any sign of Mickey or Damon.

A small travel bag would rest at her nervously tapping feet. Inside would be the basic essentials for the future she dreamed of living with Mickey. Maybe she’d even find room in there for sexy lingerie to don while lying on a cheap motel’s vibrating bed. He didn't know what it was like for her to wait there, clock ticking, hope fading. Or maybe he did -- hadn’t he played the same waiting game with Ian?

The thoughts would hit him most often when he closed his eyes in the shower. In the bathroom Joy had little pretty bottles of stuff, sweet smelling stuff to make her new and shiny again. Mickey would squirt some rose-scented goop in his hands, run the stuff over his wet naked body and let the water rinse the filthy suds away. Watching the scum swirl down the drain he’d wonder how many pretty little bottles were in that travel bag. What did she decide to hold onto and what did she decide she’d pick up along the way?

It's fucking stupid to wonder about a skanky would-be fugitive’s travel-sized toiletries. They're fucking soaps and shit, who the fuck cares? Sometimes he’d find these thoughts so fucking absurd that his laughter would make soapy water sputter from his lips. Still, when Mickey emptied one of the prettiest bottles, he carried it on his next beach walk and filled it with sand. Last time he looked, Joy had tinted the sand pink and tied a bow on the bottle.

Would Nesto find it stupid to think of these artifacts of a life never even lived? Nah, that freaky Indiana Jones wannabe would probably get a hard on, gliding his hands down Mickey's firm flank to his soapy cock and giving him a quick handy in the shower. “I knew he’d be back,” Joy purred smugly the morning she found two used coffee mugs on the dining table. Mickey scowled at her. None of this was her fucking business. Joy scrubbed the sticky sweet coffee from the mugs and hummed, “They always come back.”

No, not always. He never came back for her.

Mickey sat down in the back office while Joy played nurse and patched up his face. He felt a drop of blood trickle down his cheek, over his jaw, and down this neck. Sometimes in the shower he’d imagine the small rivers of water were wearing soil down and carving a path in stone, just like the Grand fucking Canyon. Then he’d wonder if she cried, if salty tears etched their way down her face, each drop eroding deeper and deeper until her flesh busted open.

 

* * *

 

Hey Mickey,

How’s it going in paradise? You must be enjoying plenty of sand, sun, and sea (and tequila). It's cold here in Chicago. Big fucking surprise, I know. I've gone to a couple of parties but mostly I've been going on walks lately. The neighborhood has changed a lot. Maybe I'll send some pics with the next letter.

Are you still getting it from the guy who jerks it to boulders? Is he sure he needs to go to college for that, cause the other day I responded to a call about a man who was humping a tree. I'm serious. And he didn't need to pay for college courses to become one with nature, he just needed to get high off a packet of bath salts. It’s not that I blame el Mexicano for dreaming. It's just that his dream sucks ass, you know, just like his mouth does.

Yesterday, I saw a kid in a little league uniform pissing on the street. It made me think of you at first base all those years ago. This little shit stain was all pissing away like, I don't care, I'm gonna rock out with my cock out in front of the whole street. Sue was cracking up. She said, “Why is it that the men with the smallest dicks always wanna show them off?”

 

-Ian

  
P.S. I'm eating a Kind bar right now. You and Joy can fuck off. Let me enjoy my wholesome nutty goodness.

 

* * *

 

To the Deadbeat Daddy,

For once in your life, you have not been a disappointment to me and your child. Yevgeny is very happy to have mail. He wants me and orange boy to read your notes to him all the time.

He made another drawing for you. It is animals and you on the beach, but again with fire. I tell him there is dirty smelly water at the beach but he insists to draw fire. I am afraid perhaps he becoming fixated so I hide all the matches now to take precaution.

From where he get this? Were you playing with fire when you were boy? I did not teach him this. Big Poppa and Vee did not teach this. Please tell him to draw water. Maybe he will listen to you.

 

Svetlana

 

* * *

 

Yevgeny's drawing:

A small black-haired man sat on the beach. His hands were on fire. A giant seagull stood on the man's head and was engulfed in flames. Instead of a cool blue ocean, there was a red lake of fire. A frog was hovering in the sky surrounded by a red halo.

 

* * *

 

"Shit," Mickey sighed, "my son is a fucking pyromanic."

 

 


	8. Patina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, April 11, 2017
> 
> Mickey and Joy tidy the apartment. Ian brings the drama. Svetlana has to wipe up a bunch of spills.

“I suspect you were a raised by a pack of wild animals. You suck at cleaning,” Joy joked in a measured breath, as if to avoid Mickey snapping at her.

“Fuck you. My ex was more into that kinda stuff,” Mickey yawned and washed his plate, careful not to nick himself on the small chip on the rim.

This was obviously bullshit. Mickey just hadn't learned how to properly keep a place clean. Sure, he had to keep his space tidy in prison, but he also didn't have enough items to make that task too difficult. It's not like anyone was sending him letters to file away. Out of prison, his natural instinct was to let shit pile up.

“Ok, angry bird. Whatever the case is, your ex isn't here. You are. So I need you to not wait so long before picking up your shit.”

Mickey scowled but he knew she was right. And even if he didn't, it's not like he could deny her since it’s her fucking apartment. At the same time, why clean when you could sit and watch telenovelas (or as Mickey liked to call it, study Spanish)? Joy tossed two gloves at him. A small trash bag soon followed.

The first time Mickey stood outside of Joy’s apartment, he expected the door to open up to some variation of the Milkovich house. But instead, Mickey was greeted by the fresh scent of flowers and a small but tidy place. He’d hit the jackpot of survival sex -- a fresh little home with a comfy bed, a working shower, and someone who wouldn't rob him.

It’s not that Mickey didn't understand the concept of cleaning in fucking theory but the actual process of making decisions about what to hold onto and what to let go kinda eluded him. His thoughts on the matter were simply to chuck it all except the guns and the lube. He hung back and did obvious tasks like putting his stray stinky socks in the hamper, disposing of empty beer bottles, and setting aside useless store flyers. Meanwhile, he watched Joy and followed her lead.

She was pretty unsentimental. “Don't use it, don't need it," she’d chant and into the bag the item went.

Joy’s place hadn’t started off very messy to begin with so it didn't take them long to tidy up before they began dusting. As Mickey worked on the bookshelf, he came across two pieces of a cracked porcelain figurine. It smelled sweet like that rose goop in the shower, but it had dirt deep in its grooves and in spots where the shellac had worn down. Mickey recognized it immediately as the kind of dirt you can't ever rinse away. Why hadn't this been tossed by now?

“Don't use it, don't need it. Right, skank?” Mickey held up the pieces and Joy looked up from where she was dusting the coffee table.

“No, this is special to me,” Joy walked over to him. She took the two pieces from his hand and placed them back on the shelf carefully. “One day I'll repair this, but this is something I want to keep.”

“Looks kinda grimy. You want me to scrub it or something?” Mickey offered even though he knew it would never shine again.

“Nah, it's fine. There's something kinda charming about all those marks. It’s like a fucking patina or something. Like a story is in the smudges.”

“What the fuck is with you and Nesto rubbing your privates all over dirty, broken things? I don't fucking get it.”

“You do realize that's not what archeology students actually do, right? And I've never done that either, not even in my photo shoots,” Joy smiled.

She let a beat skip before continuing, “So . . . I guess things are going well with Nesto?”

Mickey turned to Joy quickly, “How the fuck did we go from talking about shit on a shelf to talking about shit that's none of your fucking business?”

“Oh, come the fuck on, salty. You brought him up, not me. I think there's part of you that’s dying to dish the dirt. If I were knocking boots with that man, I'd share the juice with you,” Joy laughed when Mickey only raised his brows.

“And that's why the lady is a tramp,” Mickey grumbled.

“Ah, Chairman of the Board,” Joy nodded with a smile, “Good motherfucking choice.”

She turned her attention back to the broken figurine. Her fingers traced over the sharp cracked edges while she sighed. “I know it don't look like much but I . . . it's valuable to me.”

Mickey furrowed his brows. This was junk sitting on a shelf pretending it had the right to be displayed with Joy’s pretty vases, colorful photos, and travel souvenirs. It had no damn purpose, it was fucking ugly, and it was irredeemably broken. Joy was out of her damn mind.

When Joy went back to the coffee table, Mickey sneered at the piece of shit and but felt compelled to run his finger over a jagged edge. The porosity of the porcelain reminded him of the hard spongy inner core of bones. During his early childhood, his mother would ask him to play in the back yard if she needed to have a talk with Terry. Mickey loved it. He’d explore the mountain of trash and rubble behind his house, mostly finding lost coins, spent bullet casings, and the bony remains of feral baby cats.

Mickey used twigs or discarded rusty screwdrivers to dig at the soil and excavate the bones. He would take the exhumed remains and line them up on his favorite broken cement slab to perform a very careful examination. Snapping them as carefully as he could, he’d stare at the spongy web inside. After he satisfied his curiosity, he’d hold the broken pieces together, feeling accomplished if the pieces appeared seamless under his small grip.

But one day was different from the others. It was the day he found treasure. He discovered a thicker, larger bone than usual. Mickey carried it over his shoulder into the house to ask his parents what tool he could use to cut it. The duo froze in their seats mid-argument.

“Hey, Mickey, anyone outside when you were playing just now?” Terry asked very gently. Mickey's mother stared at Terry.

“No, just me,” Mickey responded. Both parents exhaled shaky breaths.

Mickey's mother raised her dark brows. Terry nodded at her. She stood up and peeped outside the windows. Grabbing a pack of smokes off a counter and clenching her jaw, she stepped outside the back door, stretching and craning her neck as she lit a cigarette.

“Alright kid, how about you leave that grimy piece of shit over here,” Terry stretched his leg and tapped his foot toward a nearby corner, “Let me and my friends hang out in the back. You can fucking play on the front lawn for a change. If you keep this to yourself, we’ll go get you some ice cream later, ok?”

Mickey pouted but he nodded in agreement and placed his treasure on the floor. “That’s my boy,” Terry ran his callused gnarly hand through Mickey’s jet black hair. He clasped Mickey’s scowling face in his hands, “I knew you'd make the right choice. You’re loyal, not a fucking rat fink like those other kids.”

Mickey’s brows shot up and his lips pulled a tiny smile. Terry lifted Mickey into his lap and wrapped his heavy arms around the boy. The boy buried his face into his father’s chest. Terry’s shirt smelled sweet like smoke and sweat, as if he’d been in front of a grill.

Reaching with his small fingertips he caressed Terry’s pockmarked and weather-worn cheeks. The warm fleshiness was so different from the feeling of dry bone. Mickey realized something about his treasure hunts that day. He could hunt and snap as many little kitten bones as he liked but none of them would ever make Mickey as happy as what he found that day.

He opened his eyes and Mickey saw his mother still smoking outside the back door with her eyes trained on them, shoulders tight, ready to pounce. Her lips were pressed thin and her fingers trembled. Maybe she felt bad because she hadn’t found a treasure of her own, he thought. But really, Mickey was too happy to care. He let his eyes fall shut and inhaled deeply.

Mickey picked up the two pieces of the figurine and held them together. His lips fought back a smile when the seam vanished. Joy was contentedly dusting her little heart out. Mickey turned back to the broken porcelain trying to read the story in its patina but found he was illiterate. He chuckled softly -- how did he go from thinking about shit on a shelf to thinking about shit that's none of his fucking business?

 

* * *

 

Hey Mickey,

It turns out Yev is a fan of Ol' Blue Eyes. Svet brought him to the station at the end of my shift while Sue was listening to some music. Yev began wiggling up a storm in his stroller. It seems he learned how to dance from living with Kev and Vee cause you and Svet can't dance for shit.

Sue saw Yev dancing and said, “Let me be real fricking clear, Gallagher. There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who love Frank Sinatra, and those who are my sworn enemies. This kid right here, he’s one of the good ones, even if he is a budding baby pyromaniac.” (No offense, Mick, but the drawings speak for themselves)

Fiona’s been riding my ass about this whole arrangement. She thinks I shouldn't be helping Svet because of what she did with the Alibi, and because she's afraid it'll draw unwanted attention. I reminded her that we used to live together so it shouldn't be odd that Svet would want my help. Fiona just gives me those ginormous fucking eyes and says, “Yeah, I get that. It's perfect for her, but how is this any of your responsibility? You can't clean up Mickey's shit without getting your hands dirty. She's a snake and she'll hand your ass over on a platter if she ever needed to.”

I lost my fucking shit. I said, "Oh yeah? A fucking platter? Like this one?" Then I fucking threw my plate across the kitchen like a goddamn soap opera diva. Breaking things probably doesn't do much for my side of the argument, huh? Mick, I think you know why I do this and I think you know why I won't stop either. All I can do is not get too mixed up in Svet’s shit and hope that Fiona is wrong. 

 

-Ian

P.S. I tried to picture you wearing a Forever Lazy and it made me feel equal parts ashamed and excited. Sounds like a good business model you and Joy have going on.

 

* * *

 

Yevgeny’s drawing:

A black-haired man is standing with a crown of fire on his head. Sitting beside him is a large fiery frog that is as tall the the man’s knees. A firefighting dog stands on its hind legs, holding a hose with its front paws. The hose snakes between the dog's legs shooting blue water into the sky.

 

* * *

 

To sperm donor with low IQ and short stature,

Yevgeny is finally drawing water for you. Now I have other problem. He wants to watch everything spill. He keeps pushing down glasses of liquid and saying, “Don’t play with fire. Stay safe!” He knocks customer’s beer out of their hands and I have to replace it. He’s costing Alibi money. Very expensive child but, of course, you don't know this because your only care in life is to go splash your little Ukrainian body in salt water then lie down on beach with naked buttocks in air awaiting sex from variety of penis.

Yevgeny began to drop glasses after firefighters talked to him about their job. Go Go Boy was afraid Yev would begin burning many toys like his younger brother did and he advised me to bring Yev to the firehouse. It was nice, a little stupid, but nice. There were 5 other children. They talked to the children that fire is dangerous, they gave him fire safety coloring book and also some stickers of dog wearing firefighter uniform.

You know, I am in deep shit right now. Vee still doesn't want to reconcile. Probably she will want to divorce soon when she has money. I will contest it to have more time but this is not stable way to live. Maybe we will visit you if it becomes too stressful over here. If we visit, we will bring that ugly shirt you want, otherwise we will not.

  
Svetlana


	9. De Nuevo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday, April 29, 2017
> 
> Mickey gets ready to start his new job. Ian sends that sexy Hawaiian print shirt. Svetlana goes to the zoo. Iggy meets the girl of his dreams.

The car thief handed Mickey a gray baseball cap. Slate gray. Mickey remembered stealing a crayon in this color and reading the name on its fuzzy label. Yevgeny doesn't have to use stolen crayons for his drawings, does he? He should probably check with Svetlana to make sure.

The cap's logo was for the Mexican national  _[fútbol](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/f%C3%BAtbol)_  team. The fabric at the brim was worn but Mickey had owned enough old clothes and had touched enough worn fabric to know this wasn't actually an old cap. Smelled too fresh and didn't have greasy oil stains on the inner rim. Someone had really tried their best to make it look old though. Hipsters, maybe?

“The fuck is this for?” Mickey flicked the cap in his hand.

“You start work on Monday. I think you ought to use this at work unless you have some other ideas. I also think you need to do something about those tats.”

“What for? Hansel didn't mind them.”

“It's not Hansel that you need to worry about. It's the _gringo_ customers. No need to be so . . . familiar, you know?”

“Fuck. Like, with what? Bandages or something?” Mickey grumbled.

Jimmy handed him a little pot of light skin colored make up. Mickey nodded.

“Alright, I'll see you at the shop, sweet cheeks,” Jimmy winked and walked away grinning.

“Sweet cheeks? What the --? Fuck you.” Mickey called out.

Mickey hadn't discussed his situation with Jimmy, or whatever he calls himself now. But it couldn't have been too hard for a guy like that to figure out. Probably a sense of fugitive camaraderie led Jimmy to refer Mickey to this auto shop job. It could've also been some sort of fucked up traumatic bonding as former partners of Gallagher siblings. Like a Gallaghers Anonymous of sorts where neither man knew they were in this group nor did they share feelings with each other.

Mickey'd been reading a Spanish study guide on the beach two weeks prior. While he'd seen Jimmy traipsing around town a couple of times they hadn't spoken at all until that day. Jimmy plunked his preppy looking ass right next to Mickey and told him about the opening at _[Auto Clínica](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/Auto%20Cl%C3%ADnica)._

“I'm tryna stay outta trouble, man,” Mickey told him.

“I hear ya. Here’s the good thing. It's a service manager position, you don't have to do anything sketchy.”

“Bullshit, they wouldn't be dealing with you unless they had something happening on the low.”

“I never said they did or they didn't,” Jimmy smiled smugly, “I only said that you don't have to do anything sketchy.”

“Fuck,” Mickey exhaled. He grabbed his tube of Pringles from Jimmy's hand and slid a few chips into his palms. They began chuckling.

“Alright, take the weekend to think. I'll come find you here Monday,” Jimmy nodded, “I’ll see you later, m--"

Mickey grabbed Jimmy by the face and kissed him on the lips roughly. Jimmy put his hand on Mickey's arm squeezing it for a second too long before shoving Mickey back.

“Jesus! What the hell?” Jimmy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I had to shut your ass up. Didn't want you to say --.”

“Of course not,” Jimmy sucked his teeth, “I wasn't even gonna say that.”

“Oh,” Mickey looked down, “so what were you gonna say?”

“Don’t remember. You sucked the words right out of my mouth,” Jimmy said, “So now that we’ve tongue wrestled, how about you tell me _[cómo te llamas ahora](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/c%C3%B3mo%20te%20llamas%20ahora)_? Would be kinda handy to know this when I introduce you to Hansel.”

“Fuck off, that’s my name now.”

Jimmy sighed and turned to the beach. Blue water sparkled in the distance. The last of the spring break tourists were splashing in the waves. Their obnoxious partying and poor decisions would be washed away by the salty water, allowing them to return to their life back home renewed. He turned back to Mickey.

“I don't know you. Only know what Fi mentioned. But if you're gonna be here a while I really think you should seize this opportunity,” Jimmy said sincerely. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins.

Mickey chewed his lip nodding distractedly. “Monday. See me then,” he said.

Jimmy rested his chin on his knees, "Alright."

For a moment they sat quietly, watching the waves roll in. Seagulls were starting to encircle them waiting for the right moment to steal any stray Pringles. A cool breeze fluttered the pages of Mickey's Spanish book.

So, it's still spring break . . .” Jimmy glanced at Mickey.

“Yeah, what's your point?”

“Wanna make out?”

 

* * *

 

Hey Mickey,

Here's your damn Hawaiian shirt. I ended up cleaning out that whole room. Spent my entire afternoon breathing in dust bunnies. So don't ever say I never did anything for you.

Guess what. Iggy got hitched to a stripper he met like three days before. So now we both have siblings who got married out of nowhere. The newly-minted Mrs. Milkovich said if they were in Vegas they would've gone all out and had the ceremony in a Denny’s wedding chapel. Instead they had to settle for going to the courthouse like ordinary impulsive people. I bet the assholes at the Alibi are already placing bets on how long they’ll last. But I have to admit I also wonder if it'll last longer than Fiona’s short time as Mrs. Pfender.

Maybe it’s fate that the car stealing bastard should do you a favor. After all, his mom shot your ass. The least Jimmy can do is try to hook you up with a job. If the garage is too sketchy see what else Joy can think of, but if it's decent I think you'd be good at it. You ran the moving truck business really well. No doubt you're good at managing things.

So this Indiana Jones disciple doesn't even know how to shotgun a beer? Let me guess, he needs a college course for that too. Mick, what are you doing with this guy? The guy needs to be taught basic activities like how to hump rocks and how to drink beer. I think you’d have a better chance finding your Romeo and Julio story on the Grindr: Wanted Fugitives edition app. I'll even start you off with the beginning of a profile: Likes guns, loves syrupy pancakes, enjoys stale pork rinds. Hates snitches, wearing sleeves, and extradition treaties.

 

-Ian

P.S. Yes, Mick, that’s Jimmy’s dad. You can probably find him on Grindr: Geriatric edition.

 

* * *

 

Yevgeny’s Drawing:

One giant colorful Easter egg fills the page. Little chocolate fingerprints are dotted and smeared in a few spots.

 

* * *

 

Mikhailo,

For Easter, the priest tells us to forgive and start fresh. So I will take his advice. I forgive you for being neglectful father and lousy husband and underachieving criminal and unpleasant little man. But I thank you for my beautiful Yevgeny.

Carrot boy suggested I take Yevgeny to the Easter egg hunt at the zoo since he was taking his brother and his niece. This was good idea so I asked my old coworkers to take care of the bar instead of shake dick all day. The children hunted for eggs, drew pictures, and sang songs.

Yevgeny was smiling all day until we went to take a picture with the guy in a rabbit costume. When he got close to the bunny he began to cry. This must be something he inherit from you but it's OK. I forgive you for shitty DNA.

We saw Vee and Big Poppa with the twins. I told them Happy Easter. Big Poppa returned the greeting but Vee only began walking in the other direction. Unfortunately, there will be no fresh start for my throuple.

Happy Easter. I hope you're gonna have a good life. I hope you'll have a new beginning and make something better than you had before. I hope this even though you're a shithead.

 

Svetlana

 

* * *

 

Dear Mickey,

I just got fucking married. It wasn't as fancy or as big as your wedding to Svetlana, just a little courthouse deal. I feel a little bad, like maybe I should’ve waited and asked Yev to be a ring bearer or something like that, but I was dying to take this woman off the market. Never wanted anything so much in my life, not even when I'd be tripping balls on E or some ish.

My wife’s name is Dasha. I met her three days ago when I was in the middle of a run. She was working the pole in a club wearing a cute little angel costume. I guess it was part of an Easter theme cause the other girls were wearing bunny costumes and egg-print costumes. Anyway, you would think that my first thought seeing a hot stripper with a banging bod would be something like, “Damn, I am so fucking sprung right now.” Well, usually it is but not this time.

My first thought was real simple. She was upside down on the pole then she smiled at me. I thought, “Oh, there you are,” as if I’d been fucking waiting for her all this time, as if I fucking knew her. I let that thought pass cause it's kind of stupid, you know. Later she’s walking around and when she sees me she goes, “Hey, there you are.” Yeah, it could be a coincidence but if it's more than that you know I had to get that shit on lock.

I didn't used to get you before, I mean all the things you used to do for the ginger gigolo, but when I met Dasha it made sense. Sometimes you just gotta be all in. You just gotta YOLO the fuck outta any doubts. No chance it can work otherwise. You taught me that. I only wish you coulda been at the wedding.

 

Yours,

Iggy

 

P.S. I miss the fuck outta you, bro.


	10. Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, May 22, 2017
> 
> Mickey doesn't know how to stop a leak. Ian thinks about timezones. Svetlana gets a free dinner.

“I used to work at a restaurant called [_La Zona de Pollo_](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/La%20Zona%20de%20Pollo). I made marinade in huge barrels. _[Ay Dios](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Ay%20dios)_ , I smelled like onions all the time and my hands were yellow from the spices. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash the smell off my body. Even six months after I quit, I smelled like onions,” Mariana laughed.

“I used to work security in a shithole convenience store. I spent the whole day chasing little klepto kids away from candy. My boss was a hard ass towelhead,” Mickey said.

The topic was shit jobs. And while, yes, Mickey’d had way shittier gigs in his life he didn't wanna tell his future roommate about his time furniture stealing, drug dealing, or whore mongering.

Mariana frowned and very slowly she asked, “What do you mean -- towelhead?” She bit her lip.

He shrugged as he watched a few tourists shopping for  _[recuerdos](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/souvenirs)_. He said, “You know some fucking people put a fucking scarf on their heads? A fucking towel. Towelhead. Like, uh, Arabs and whatever.”

Her lips parted before she clenched her jaw. Mickey could see the veins in her neck bulging. Then she burst into tears.

“Oh shit,” Mickey drawled out long and slow. His eyes widened and his brows shot up to his hairline. “The fuck did I do?”

“No. Don't do -- aw, come on, Mariana,” he cajoled. His eyes shifted everywhere and he ran his hand down his face.

Mickey scrambled for the right words to calm her, finally deciding to go with simple eloquence, “Oh fuck.”

He looked around them. People were beginning to give him the same judgemental stare that Warty McFly and Svetlana usually gave him.

“Uh, hey. Don't cry ok? People might think I fucking did something bad to you.”

She only cried harder. He could hear the whispers of [_“mal novio”_](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/mal%20novio) and _“[ay, pobrecita](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/ay%20pobrecita)”_ and “what a fuckboy douchebag" from the bystanders. Blue-haired Mexican gal weeping next to knuckle-tatted gringo. He knew what it looked like to them. He'd be seen as some entitled _[Americano](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Americano)_ pussy hound who played games with some poor gal's heart.

Turning to the onlookers, he called out, “Ey, fuck off with that _‘mal novio’_ shit, alright? This ain't no fucking telenovela. We don't need the viewers so walk the fuck away.”

Most people tired of the spectacle, shaking their heads in disapproval. Mickey dismissed the remaining stragglers with sharp waves of his hands and the command to, [“ _¡Vete! ¡Vete! ¡Vete!_](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1Vete!%20%C2%A1Vete!%20%C2%A1Vete!)”

He turned back to Mariana and exhaled sharply. “Will ya fucking talk to me?” he asked. She was hyperventilating now.

“Look, I didn't mean to make you upset, alright,” he snapped.

She renewed her teary whimpering. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mickey was fucking bad at this consoling shit. He didn't like anything that involved people’s faces busting open and leaking water everywhere. The fuck? Mickey wasn't a goddamn plumber.

“I'm Arab,” she choked out through gritted teeth.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey felt his stomach drop. His face screwed up and he looked away from her.

How do you apologize for this? You can't, not really. What would doing so even mean?

 

 _‘I'm sorry that my prejudice hurts your feelings.’_ That’s pretty fucking lousy. Be a fucking man and own your shit.

 _‘I'm sorry, I'm not actually prejudiced but I enjoy saying_ _prejudiced things.’_ Not true.

 _‘I'm sorry I didn't recognize you so I could hide my prejudice.’_ Lacks balls, not to mention it's fucking stupid.

 

Every single one of those possible statements was stupid. If Mickey was gonna be a prick, he was gonna have to do it with integrity.

Like the assface Mandy always told him he was, Mickey settled on this, “I . . . had no idea.”

Mariana’s breathing began to calm down and she sputtered a few tiny bitter laughs. She turned her dark doe eyes toward Mickey. Salty wet trails ran down her cheeks mixed in with some gritty black make up. Looked like a river carrying soil. It's the same as he imagined the prison guard’s tears would look.

They simply gazed at each other. When her breathing completely evened out, the young woman reached out and took Mickey's hand. She nodded softly. He couldn't hold eye contact any longer and looked down at the bench they sat on.

“I'm a little tired. I’ll go now,” she stood up.

Mickey stood up too. Mariana gave him a faint smile which he didn't have enough courage to return. And when she leaned in to hug him, he was abso-fucking-lutely stunned. Not only was she a class act, but she didn't smell anything like onions. She smelled like the watermelon Now and Later candies that little kids loved to steal from the Kash and Grab.

She walked away, her deep blue hair draped softly over her shoulders like a veil. The kind worn by one of those stained glass Virgin Mary’s shining light onto the pews of a church. Mickey chewed the inside of his cheek, annoyed with himself by his almost automatic reaction of thinking about head coverings.

He sat back down, pulling for his cigarettes. After that short but draining conversation, Mickey figured he deserved a smoke. Is it still considered a conversation if one person only responds in tears? And fuck, did he just mess up his chances of moving in with her and Chepe this July?

He rapped the pack on the heel of his palm. Today's gruesome health warning picture was a man breathing through a hole in his neck. Lucky fucker. Bet _that_ guy never says the wrong thing anymore.

“ _[Hola, primo.](http://www.spanishdict.com/translate/hey%20cuz)_ Where’s Mariana?” Chepe asked as he walked up. He plopped himself on the bench.

“She was tired. Left a little early,” Mickey exhaled smoke and flipped his wrist presenting the cigarette pack to Chepe. The other shook his head in the negative. While the cigarette burned, Chepe glanced at the vendors around El Malecon.

As casually as he could, the American asked, “She’s, uh, she’s Arab, huh?”

“ _[Sì](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/S%C3%AC), _ her dad is from Lebanon. There’s an Arab community in this state but I don't know if it's as big as the one in Mexico City."

Chepe spotted an ice cream vendor. He said, “When you're finished smoking, let’s get something sweet.  _[Helado](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/ice%20cream)_?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Mickey snuffed his cigarette.

The two young men walked to the little old woman and her tiny ice cream cart. Mickey watched as she scooped the cold dessert. Her tan skin was crepey and loose, hanging from her thin arms in soft folds like velvety fabric.

Chepe ordered some coconut and mango mess in a cup. Mickey stuck with a chocolate ice cream cone cause he was into fucking classics like that. Mickey licked his ice cream while reaching with his free hand for his wallet.

Good. Real fucking good. Un-fucking-believable, actually. He paused in awe, running his tongue over that old root canal of his.

 _[“Qué pasa?”](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%E2%80%9CQu%C3%A9%20pasa%3F%E2%80%9D)_ Chepe asked, “Your tooth is hurting?”

Mickey shook his head no. He tossed his head back, looked up at the sunny blue sky, and sighed deeply. If Mickey were another kind of man, Chepe might've thought he was seeking favor from a higher power. But this was no church and Mickey was no supplicant.

“No, man, it's not that. _[No tengo fucking dinero.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/No%20tengo%20fucking%20dinero.)_ Rainbow Brite just jacked my wallet.”

 

* * *

 

Hi Mick,

It sounds like everything has fallen into place down in Mexico. Happy for you. With the legit(ish) job and the future apartment, this must mean Puerto Vallarta is really your home now.

God, you're fucking far. But you know we're still in the same timezone? So when I have coffee in the morning you probably are too, and when I'm sleeping in bed you are also. Unless you're with that necrophiliac mummy-groper, then I guess you're not really sleeping. I bet he makes you play dead so he can live out his fantasies of doing the deed with ancient archeological remains. What a creep, Mick.

We had our first Mother’s Day since Monica passed. For most of my life this day would be like any other but this time I actually thought about her. Thought about her a lot. You know the last thing I said to her? I fucking yelled at her for not being around when I needed her.

Sue and I delivered a baby at the fucking Fairy Tail that day. By the time we arrived, the mom was so far into her labor that her uterus was like a toaster -- the baby just popped right out. I think it was a fitting way to spend the holiday since Monica had taken me to my first club. This was back during one of the times you were in juvie.  

The Fairy Tail mom should name her baby after the last guy to give her a lap dance. I can just picture the kid now. Baby Magic Mike decked out in a little gold spandex onesie and body glitter, wearing his umbilical cord like a tiny necktie.

-Ian

P.S. Send me some postcards of the places you like out there.

 

* * *

 

Yevgeny’s drawing:

A colorful variety of fish swim in a blue ocean. Stars twinkle in the sky. A crescent moon hangs in the corner. 

 

* * *

 

To baby daddy with buttocks like cheese pelmeni,

On Monday, Howdy Doody took me and Yevgeny to dinner for a late Mother’s Day celebration. We felt inspired by your present and ate at a Mexican restaurant. 

All day people thought he is my husband and kept saying ‘you are a lovely couple’ or ‘your wife is so beautiful.’ After a while we got tired of explaining that we are not married. So when the next person said something about our marriage, he kiss my hand and tell them, ‘this beautiful creature is the apple of my eye, the fire in my loins, and the pain in my ass.’

Yevgeny began to copy us and kiss our hands which made us all laugh. It was a good night, just joking and eating together. It was also nice getting called beautiful by strangers who are not exposing erect penis and begging for orgasm.

Thanks for the magnet collection. All my life I dreamed of motherhood so I can adorn my refrigerator with cheap Made in China magnets shaped like plates of Mexican food. Yevgeny’s favorite magnet is plate of fish and rice. He says, «мама, рыба и рис, пожалуйста.» This mean ‘mommy, fish and rice, please.’

The one that looks like a plate of chicken tacos and a side salad is very cute. Out of all the magnets, I hate this one the least. Orange Creamsicle likes the dessert magnets, especially the bowl of flan with the spoon stuck inside.

You do not know but it was not easy to give birth to Yevgeny. He had quite a large head. For sure, this is Milkovich size head. Like heavy, blue-eyed bowling ball. But if you think cheap magnet collection and a card printed in unfamiliar foreign language shows your appreciation for expelling your offspring from my womb, I'll not 'ride your ass' as you like to say.

 

Svetlana


	11. Kintsugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, June 18, 2017
> 
> Mickey takes a second look at the figurine. Ian plays with water. Svetlana's living the American dream.

The envelope was addressed to a hospitality industry association in Florida. Inside this manila envelope were three smaller envelopes: one holding a card and two with letters. Mickey's Father’s Day card had been signed by Yev, Svet, and, to his surprise, fucking Gallagher. That was fucking weird. Wasn't it just parents and babies who scrawl inside these kinda things?

It wasn't like Mickey was Ian’s father, but what-the-fuck-ever. That fucker always did have daddy issues. Probably started once his DNA test said, “Congrats, asswipe. Your life sucks even more than you thought it did. You’ve got a secret daddy-uncle!”

Mickey propped the pastel blue card up on the bookshelf next to his pretty little bottle of guilty pink sand. He set the letters aside for later.

“That’s real nice. You gotta miss your little rugrat on holidays like this, huh?” Mel asked as he walked past Mickey to open the patio door.  
  
“I guess so. Whatever,” Mickey muttered. Out of the corner of Mickey's eye, he saw Joy elbow Mel when he returned to sit beside her. 

Both Joy and Mel were seated at the dining table and clad in gloves, long sleeved shirts, and aprons. They'd been working on her broken figurine ever since he’d inadvertently set these two assholes up. He had actually been trying very hard to cockblock Mel but that fucker’d gotten the upper hand. Now Mickey had to see his goddamn grimy mug during the work week and on the weekend.

Whenever Joy used to pass by Auto Clínica, Mel would come over to the office and ask about her. Mickey’d tried complaining about her weirdest fucking habits hoping the mechanic would be put off but Mel would only grin and munch on his stupid red apples, listening with a voracious appetite. Once he would get down to the core, he’d wipe the juice off his chin and thank Mick for giving him the inside scoop.

One day Mickey had been bitching about the cracked porcelain trash that Joy kept around seemingly just for the sake of dusting. Mel’s eyebrows flashed. He lowered his apple from his lips, a juicy little smile replacing the sweet fruit.

A few days later when Joy was dropping Mickey off at the garage, Mel sauntered over. He was freshly cologned and his tight curls were styled just a bit nicer than usual, which Mickey noticed with a smirk.

“ _[Hola](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/hello)_ , Joy. _[Mi jefe](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/Mi%20jefe)_  --” the mechanic had begun, tilting his head toward Mickey.

“Not your  _[jefe](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#auto/en/jefe)_ , Mel,” Mickey interjected. Joy and Mel glanced over then promptly ignored him.

“So, uh, like I was sayin’, _mi jefe_ tells me you have something you'd like to fix, a little ceramic item,” Mel had said.

Joy furrowed her brows and looked through the office pass-through window at Mickey, smiling curiously. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I keep putting it off. Kinda scared to mess it up.”

“I have an idea for repairing it. Won't get it perfect, but maybe we can get it even prettier for ya. What you think?”

Joy tilted her head and looked at Mel. She smiled slowly. “Even prettier? How much would you charge?”

“No, you misunderstood,  _[mami](https://www.quora.com/What-does-the-Spanish-slang-term-mami-mean)_. We’d do it together. _[Tú y yo, juntos](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/T%C3%BA%20y%20yo%2C%20juntos)_ ,” the mechanic spoke casually but took one small step closer to Joy.

To Mickey's fucking dismay, Joy didn’t take one step backwards. “ _[Juntos, yo y tú](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Juntos%20yo%20y%20t%C3%BA)_ _?_ ” Joy flipped the words on her tongue.

“Damn it,” Mickey grumbled to himself, even as he pretended not to listen. It was bad enough he had to be subjected to fucking rico suave over here seducing his roommate but Mickey really didn't wanna have to listen to these knuckleheads go at it in the apartment, too. Mickey prided himself on being low-maintenance but the thought of trying to sleep on the couch while they indulged in raucous sexcapades made him itch.

Joy whipped her head toward Mickey. Strands of her black hair caught in her mouth. “Yo, you trust this dirt-covered grease monkey to enter our apartment?”

Mel chuckled, “Hey, I may not be the man some girls think of as handsome but I got a little something going on under all this car oil and dirt.” Joy raised a brow, then began humming the familar tune. She reached through the window to snatch a tissue from Mickey's desk. She touched it lightly to the tip of her tongue before wiping an oily smudge off of Mel’s face.

The soft drag of tissue on cheek evoked an old memory. Ian used to lick his own thumb, swipe it down Mickey’s dirt-covered cheek, and smile like he'd uncovered buried treasure. Mickey’d scoff as he swatted the spit-slicked thumb away, wearing the harshest scowl he could muster, laughter bubbling within his chest.

Ian would rise to the challenge by making a show of licking the pads of all his fingers then trying to wrestle him. Eventually Mickey would let him win. Long, lithe fingers would drag down soft cheeks, sweeping dirt away in small tracks. His face would gleam with Gallagher’s spit while Gallagher would press his dirty fingerprints onto the broken concrete walls making dick pictures. Thinking back on it now, it had to be one of the stupidest games ever.

But it wasn't really about dirt and spit. It was about the short pause before they started laughing together. A little crack in their pretense. A tiny canyon for Mick to fall deeper.

Mickey sighed. He couldn't deny Joy a chance to play that game too. Not after she’d fucking helped him out. And not after knowing how much she wanted some fucking fairy tale skank version of happily ever after.

Mickey had been on the verge of answering Joy’s question with cockblocking abandon. He was about to tell her that Mel was untrustworthy. The kind of asshole who never courtesy flushes even when he drops a huge turd. A smarmy fucker who would tell Sylvester Stallone that his plastic surgery looks believable. A jerk who leaves the last bit of milk at the bottom of a carton just so he wouldn't have to be the one to throw it away.

But what came out was, “I fucking guess he’s alright. If he fucks up, you know where he works.”

Joy let out an ugly snort of laughter. She always did laugh funny. “Well, if and when _[el jefe](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/el%20jefe)_  decides to bring you over, I'll be there,” she smiled and walked away.

As she drove off, the mechanic said, “Watch me, _jefe._  By the time we’re done fixing that thing, she’ll be my girl.”

So for the past three weeks, Mel had accompanied Mickey home. Like some sort of parental chaperone, he’d try to stay out of the duo’s hair as they watched online videos on repairs, ordered supplies, mixed up some goop, pressed broken pieces together. They fussed over the figurine and even gave it a place to rest in a box at night. They’d change its moist towels, wipe the mess down with a little turpentine, and check on it every few days.

They treated it as if it were a baby in an incubator. Except babies probably should be checked on more often than every few days. And babies fucking don't get wiped down with turpentine. Even deadbeat dads like himself know this much.

All the letters from Chicago only put into sharp relief that being a dad was not Mickey's fucking forte. He knew from the beginning that he didn't have the same urges to do things for the child that Svetlana did. There’s no doubt that she loved that kid. And if Mickey didn't feel what she felt then he must simply not love his son.

Meanwhile Ian was taking Yev to the fucking zoo, on walks, crooning tunes with him. Mickey never did any of that shit. The first and last time Mickey threw a party for Yev, he stole his kid’s spotlight by fucking coming out of the closet then smashing chairs on the other guests. Yeah, maybe those assholes had it coming, but Mickey Milkovich was still an all around shitty father.  
  
It's a good thing Yevgeny had a parent who properly gave a shit. He could still picture Svetlana visiting him in prison with her porcelain white cleavage on display and their baby on her hip. All this, just so he could stare at the boy through a sheet of glass for a few minutes.

Yev would drool and press his tiny hands to the glass, shit his little diaper, try to swallow the phone receiver, all sorts of baby fucking nonsense. It made Mickey smile but it made a heaviness settle in his gut too. Is this as good as it gets for you, he’d wonder as rivers of saliva flowed over Yev’s lips.

When Mickey thought about it, the only decent thing he ever did for the child was claim him as his son and even that was more practical than altruistic. He had his doubts about Yev’s paternity early on. Who wouldn't? He was a whore’s child but still, this was the child his wife bore.   
  
Unlike many fathers, Mickey hadn't wanted to see any of his own features in Yevgeny’s face. In fact, he’d tried not to look at Yev at all when he was first born. The mere thought of the baby would cause his chest to tighten, squeezing every breath out of his lungs. Svetlana's loud incessant cursing would be drowned out by the roaring of blood coursing through his veins.  
  
Even barricaded at chez Gallagher, it’d been impossible for him not to see Yev’s wispy blond hairs and his piercing blue eyes. Mandy had made sure of it. She’d text him pictures of the baby multiples times a day with captions such as, “Don't be such a fucking asshole. He’s beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” Mickey wouldn't respond.  
  
When Mandy had finally texted him, “Mickey, please. I know you can do better than he did,” Mickey went to the bathroom and vomited as discreetly as he could. He rinsed his mouth and washed his face. Mickey scrubbed his skin vigorously, molding his fingers into every last groove. Foamy scum swirled down the slightly backed up drain while his blue eyes gazed through the dried toothpaste spatter on the mirror. That day, he didn't see any trace of Terry at all.  
  
His trembling fingers texted back, “Fuck you.” In turn, Mandy texted him the info for Yevgeny’s upcoming baptism. A second text followed immediately. It was a middle finger emoji. He felt like a fucking dick but he teared up when he saw that emoji.  
  
“You wanna know the fucking truth, guys?” Mickey started, “He scared the fuck out of me. I wanted nothing to do with him. ”

Joy gasped softly. Mickey didn't know if it was surprise at his sudden candor, or horror, or pity. None of those possibilities appealed to him. Mel didn't look up from the figurine. He only nodded in silence, small brush gliding against porcelain.  
  
“Fuck father’s day. This day isn't meant for people like me. So what, I spilled some spunk? What’s it matter when some other fucker has to clean up my kid's fucking diapers?” Mickey said.

This wasn't any of their fucking business but he'd put it out there as if he were retching the words violently from his gut. Warmth flooded his face. He looked down at his knuckles and distractedly ran his fingers over the slight crest of the tattoos.  
  
“Hey man, you may never be a perfect father but no motherfucker ever is,” Mel sucked his teeth in concentration before handing the figurine to Joy.  
  
No one needed to tell Mickey that shit. To people like Mickey this knowledge was tangible, as palpable as the flesh of his body and the bones within. Even so, only Gallagher and Svetlana would ever truly get the depths of what Mickey understood shitty fatherhood to mean.

Joy nodded, looking up from her work. As if Mickey would shatter under her words, she softly asked, “What do you feel for him now?”  
  
“Sorry. Just . . .  I feel fucking sorry. For all of it.”

A flinch flickered across Joy's face and she lowered her eyes, exhaling slowly. The figurine lay on a white towel in the crook of one arm, while she wiped the remaining turpentine off with a damp towel. 

She turned toward Mickey. “Would you like to see it?”

“Not fucking really,” he lied, “but I will." He was curious to see it, even though the thought of coming closer to them after exposing himself made him drag his feet.

“It isn't just a feeling, you know,” Mel resumed the original topic. “You can't choose the way you feel but you can choose to do what you think a father should do. That means something. Life don't gotta be  _[perfecto](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/perfecto)_ ,  _jefe._ ”  
  
Maybe Mel was right and the meager actions Mickey had to offer would be enough for Yevgeny. Svetlana might teach the kid that it counts even though it would never be right or perfect or even what Yev deserved. Or maybe Yev would come to view Mickey as nothing more than dry bone in a corner -- his son’s fingers searching for treasure but never finding it.  
  
“Pretty, isn't it?” Joy asked. She raised it in her hands to show Mick.  
  
The figurine was whole again. Mickey slipped the digits of his right hand over the cool, smooth material and was enraptured by the old cracks. Instead of joining the shards together as seamlessly as possible, Mel and Joy had decided to go the opposite route. Thin silver veins ran throughout the porcelain where only brittle injury once existed. One missing shard was completely filled in with a smooth silvery patch.

The soiled spots looked darker against the silver. Their rounded pillowy forms contrasted against the jaggedness of shiny lines. It looked like the kind of shit Nesto would admire in a textbook, like some fucking museum-worthy artifact that deserved a spotlight. This had to be too good to sit on the bookshelf next to all that other stuff Joy had.

Mickey realized he’d seen this type of repair before. He lightly rested the palm of his left hand against his chest. Underneath lay the tattoo he’d given himself in prison. Dark ink filled the seams where Mickey’d pressed a shard of his daydreams against a shard of his life with Ian. Misspellings highlighted the cleft between who Mickey thought Ian was and what Ian had done. It wasn't as pretty as the figurine and no one would ever put his shit in a museum, but maybe he didn't have to keep the fucking thing under wraps as much as he did.

So maybe Yevgeny would be okay after all. Maybe the little guy wouldn't need to choose between broken bones and fruitless treasure hunts. Perhaps Yev's fingers could move deftly over the cold shards his father's quivering grip left behind, brushing powdered metals into crevices. Yev could join breaks and fissures so deep that most people wouldn’t even realize that silver linings could be found there.

Mickey’s brow uncreased. The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly. Perhaps he was feeling goofy from inhaling too much turpentine, but from his lips flowed the words, “Never seen fucking anything so pretty as this shit right here.”

 

* * *

  
  
The Father’s Day Card:

The two adults signed the right panel, squeezing their words where the pre-printed card sentiment left room.

  
  
Mickey,  
  
Our child is really beautiful. He is so smart and very, very funny. When I have bad day, he makes it better. You gave me amazing present even though you are leaving all responsibility on me. Thank you. Happy father's day.

Svetlana

 

What’s up, Mick?

Hope you're having a nice sunny and relaxing father’s day.

-Ian

 

Yev used the entire left panel of the card for his drawing.

The sun is shining. A frog floats on a lily in a strip of green water. Standing on the sand, a black-haired man holds a chocolate ice cream cone. Under his feet in crayon is 'Dad.' A blond boy smiles next to him. Next to his face, scrawled in crayon was 'Yeveg.'

It was wasn't right or perfect but it was enough.

 

* * *

  
  
_[Hola Mick,](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Hola%20Mick%20%C2%BFC%C3%B3mo%20est%C3%A1s%3F%20Estoy%20bien.)_  
  
_[¿Cómo estás? Estóy bien.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Hola%20Mick%20%C2%BFC%C3%B3mo%20est%C3%A1s%3F%20Estoy%20bien.)_ I've been studying a little Spanish when I have a few moments. Comes in handy with the patients. I can ask them if they have pain and little things like that. They like that I try even though I don't know a lot yet and my accent is heavy.

Frank’s been running around with a 20 year old lately. He’s making out with her on the back steps right now and yeah, it's every bit as revolting as you think it is. Yesterday, they tried that shit on the front steps so I took a hose and sprayed them down. He told me, “Don’t rain on my parade cause you've got no one who wants to play tonsil hockey with you, you giant Chuckie Doll.”

 _[Sí, estóy soltero.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/s%C3%AD%20estoy%20soltero) _ It's been a few months now but I didn't know that Frank had noticed this in between all his drinking, vomiting, and his crying jags. Guess he thinks about me more than I realized.

Hey, I know I write a lot of smack about Nesto but what you wrote in your letter, that thing he said to you, it sounds fucking kinda nice. Finally something he and I can agree on.

  
-Ian

 

* * *

 

Hello 99 cent store daddy,

You may not realize it, but you help me with Yevgeny even from far away. Sometimes when he wants to misbehave I tell him, "Daddy wouldn't approve," and he reconsiders it. He may decide to misbehave anyway but at least I have a minute or two to stay ahead of his destruction.

My own father introduced me to Sasha because he thought maybe I could do better in the U.S.A. Maybe he understood what kind of work she intended for me. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Now I have bar, I have baby, I have some money, I have people I see everyday, I have ex-husband. Maybe soon I'll have ex-wife, too. It’s American dream, yes?

As you know, Vee already had Big Poppa before me. And when Vee decided we will be together, she still had Big Poppa. She loves him, she loves me. This was not problem for her.

So maybe this experience will help. You do not say it but it seems to me you are conflicted. It's not every day you meet someone who actually fucking give shit. Someone who visits you, takes you to enjoy new things. From what you wrote me, Latin Boy Toy has already shown you his cards.

You flapped your little jailbird wings to Mexico so you don't have to be trapped in cage anymore. So you can be free to do what you desire. A river doesn't run dry if you wish to dive into a pond. It's ok to have this if you want it. This is not crime.

  
Svetlana

 


	12. Sleepwalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, June 27, 2017
> 
> Mickey has a dream. Ian sends postcards.

That night Mickey dreamt of Ian. It was the day before Mickey crossed the Mexican border. On the same day that Jesus, surrounded by his  _[hombres](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#en/es/men), _ had turned his unrepentant ass away from the  _[quinceañera](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quincea%C3%B1era)_.

Now rolling before them was the Rio Grande. Green reeds swayed gently on the sandy banks. The sun had begun to wash the sky in red. Gold and copper glimmered off the water, foliage, and rocks.

Ian led Mickey by the hand between verdant trees to the river's edge. The brunet felt his fingers trembling against the other’s sure grip. His mouth was parched, as dry as the river was wet. The muscles of his body were tightly wound, coiled.

Mickey chewed his lip as he looked at Ian’s coppery tresses, damp with sweat. Perspiration dripped off the red hairs at the nape of his neck drenching the collar below. Meanwhile, salty water trickled down Mickey's own brow, stinging his eyes. Ian looked over his shoulder at Mickey, licked his lips then halted. The redhead smirked and took off his shoes.

Mickey only watched in confusion as Ian stripped off all his clothing and placed them on one side of a large cracked rock. Smiling gently, he then approached and slipped the plaid shirt off Mickey's shoulders. Shedding his clothes as well, the brunet lay them on the other side of the rock.

Gallagher’s long fingers slipped between Mickey's once again, joining them palm to palm. They continued on their path. Moist heavy sand clung to their heels as they walked closer to the water. With every step into the river, smooth stones pushed against the soles of his feet as if to propel Mickey forward.

Finally the water reached mid-chest and Mickey shook his head. He would go no further. Ian peered into his eyes, then pressed their foreheads together.

Mickey's breath caught. Here was the same feeling from their farewell at the border, when he was clad in a frilly dress, heart thumping in his fucking chest. So full he could barely breathe, so empty he didn't see a need to.

As he had done then, Mickey reached up and brushed his fingers along Ian’s cheek, gliding his hand to rest on Ian’s neck. This time wet hair rested under the pads of his fingers. Against his hand was warm, soft flesh pulled taut over bone.

Mickey’s breathing slowed down, settling under their connection. The redhead raised his head and pulled a small tight smile across his lips. Ian lay one hand over Mickey's and dragged it slowly from neck to chest, over his heart.

The moment their hands nestled over Ian’s chest, Mickey remembered their life -- good and bad. Every drop of water sweeping over him seemed to carry another moment, a feeling, a taste of their time together, and it struck him that this river would never stop flowing. Mickey's only option was to swim. It was obvious now that that had always been the only option.

Mickey rested his head against Ian’s chest. As the sun slipped under the horizon, the river began to gleam gold. Metal to gild the cleft between where Ian would remain and where Mickey would go.

Ochre and rose tinted waters began to surge with the sun’s retreat. Higher and higher the river rose till they were both submerged. Mickey was surprised to find himself swimming instinctively. The tightness had unwound, the coil had loosened. He exhaled slowly, as if his breath itself could stretch along the length of the river.

If only they could just stay here, they could remain sealed under lacquer, unchanging. The young men swam in circles around each other eventually pressing their foreheads together again. A tiny smile took over Mickey's lips and he closed his eyes. This was it, wasn't it? This fucking had to be heaven.

But Mickey found he couldn't hold his breath any longer. He ascended gasping for air. His skin was slick with water and the air against the droplets made him shiver.

He wiped the moisture off his face with one hand as the other fell into a pool of threads. Mickey furrowed his brows. The fuck were threads doing in the Rio Grande? His movements stilled when he realized his limbs were engulfed in thin sheets of fabric.

There were no flowing waters. The Rio Grande had been crossed another lifetime ago. The sun had set long before. Threads of warm sunset had been spun into cool silver wire.

Mickey sat up and looked out the nearby window while the raggedness of his breathing subsided. Outside was an inky indigo sky and white woolen clouds. The stillness almost seemed to smirk and taunt him. On the bed next to him, Nesto’s tawny flesh was illuminated by moonlight. His chest rose and fell in steady ripples like the waters of _[La Cascada de Palo María](https://youtu.be/SdERYGyfJV8)_. 

Mickey smiled ruefully remembering that first date at the waterfalls. Nesto had been good to him. He couldn't complain. It would never be about that.

As if he could feel Mickey's disquiet, the sleeping man began to stir. He stretched his sinewy arms as he yawned and turned to the other man. When he noticed Mickey's pensive mood, an uneasy smile formed on Nesto's lips.

" _Guapo_ ," he whispered. The word hung in the air between them.

“Um, Nesto,” Mickey hesitated, biting his lip, “Man . . . I gotta talk to you.”

The light in Nesto’s smile grew dim. He lowered his dark eyes to the other's tattoo. His fire had been doused with water, extinguished, and nothing but smoky trails were left as Mickey watched him slowly turn away.

 

* * *

 

 **Postcard #1: The Chicago Theater sign**  - a marquee and large vertical sign saying CHICAGO.

In case you forgot how to spell the name of your hometown, got your reminder right here.

-Ian

 

 **Postcard #2: Millenium Park**  - a city plaza with a few trees and a giant rounded shiny bean-looking sculpture.

It's big and it's shiny like a larger than life cock in silver lamé booty shorts. Ah, every young man's dream.

-Ian

 

 **Postcard #3: The Chicago Skyline at Night**  - skyscrapers and city lights twinkle against a dark blue sky.

This reminds me of your hair under flashing Fairy Tail disco lights.

-Ian

 

 **Postcard #4: The Skydeck of Willis Tower**  - an enclosed glass balcony juts out of a skyscraper. The rest of the city is tiny from this high vantage point.

Fuck no. First of all, I'm still calling it the Sears Tower cause who the fuck is Willis? And second, nope, not gonna piss my fucking pants on that skydeck and leave a yellow puddle sky high.

-Ian

 

 **Postcard #5: Lake Michigan, Chicago**  - painting of a few sailboats on the lake.

Maybe it's not as nice as your beach but it gets the job done. Yeah, yeah, I know, fuck seagulls.

-Ian


	13. Oxidación

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, July 19, 2017
> 
> Mickey's co-worker loves being a mechanic.  
> Svetlana tells Ian a story.  
> A hipster plays with Svetlana.  
> Mandy sees a thing of beauty.

“Garages are a funny place. People buy cars cause they dream of the places they’ll go, things they'll experience. You know what I'm saying?"

Mickey took a sip of his soda and smirked at the young man.

"Right, of course you do. So anyway, after a while wear and tear sets in and maybe they don't get there as fast as they want, or maybe they can't get there at all. So like, garages are kinda like a place to dream again," Baltasar smiled brightly.

Mickey paused, _cemita_ halfway to his lips. His brows were furrowed but lips smiling.

"Don't laugh, man," Balto continued, "I'm telling you, we make people’s dreams come true. That's why I like what I do, _jefe_. People think we're nothing much cause we don't got ties and snazzy fucking offices. That shit's for chumps. Gimme a wrench and a rusty car any day."

Mickey didn't want to smile but this fucking kid was so hopeful. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. Who knew he'd end up working with fucking Pollyanna in a grease monkey uniform.

Balto kinda reminded Mickey a little bit of a younger Gallagher with his big smiley insistence that good things can happen to people like them. That was the boy he knew before it all -- that day, the wedding, the army. That Gallagher was long gone. If boys like them were right, then Mickey wouldn't be in that fucking shop to even have this fucking ludicrous conversation.

A car pulled into the garage. Rusty, Mickey noticed, like most of these cars by the salty seaside. This car would add to the red iron flakes that coated the cement floors of the auto shop. At the end of the day the mechanics would sweep and their brooms would drag through the rust like a comb through hair.

"I'll mop up," Mickey would say just so he could see the fine red tendrils on the floor a little longer. 

The mechanics were happy to oblige. He suspected that maybe Mel knew why Mickey didn't mind sweeping up; Mel usually left the thickest iron streaks. Nah, it was more likely that Mel just couldn't sweep for shit. Mickey liked to imagine the look on Joy's compulsive cleaning face upon realizing her man was a shitty sweeper.

Working at the garage wasn't bad even though it smelled like too much of Balto's cheap body spray mixed with whatever the cars du jour leaked. Ian had been right. Being a service manager at Auto Clínica came naturally to Mickey. It really fucking was like running shit at chez Milkovich but instead of guns and drugs and numbers, it was cars and car parts. And instead of working with that goofball Iggy and them other numbskulls, he dealt with three mechanics and that son of a bitch, Jimmy.

At the end of the work day, Mickey had developed a routine. Drop the gate, open desk drawer, take out a Kind Bar from his secret stash of shameful snacks, drop it in his pocket. Then he'd squirt some of that apple scented soapy shit into a bucket and slosh the string mop around.

Halfway through cleaning the shop floor, jefe Milkovich would lean on a car, pull out his Kind Bar and consume it slowly while admiring the floor. Maybe Joy had gotten into his head with all her OCD cleaning but he liked comparing the before and after effects of his mopping. He wasn't going to analyze it. After all, it was just a fucking mop and it was just a fucking floor.

Today, he thought about Balto during his mid-mop snacking. Maybe it was true what the kid said. You know, about dreaming and cars. 

That's what that Jeep was, wasn't it?

Mickey smacked his lips in annoyance. Fuckin Damon, man. He fucking killed that shit. Mickey shouldn't have ever brought that bitch along. He should've turned his back on Damon just like he did every time that fucktard jerked his dick in their prison cell. If only Mickey had turned his back once they broke out then --

Then what? He'd have a Jeep and a redhead right now? Who was he kidding?

Mickey took another bite and chewed. He remembered Gallagher asking for a Kind Bar from the gas station. Buying hipster squirrel food should've been a simple task but fucking Damon began waving his gun at the attendant the way he always jerked his dick --carelessly and shamelessly.

And so the boys knew they had to drop Damon's ass. There didn't need to be any discussion between them. It was more than enough that they walked to the junkier car together while Damon was practically rubbing his hard on against the flashier one.

Mickey's fingers had fumbled at the wires of the dust old car. The adrenaline from the unexpected robbery got him all fucked up. The very tips of his fingers felt weak, couldn't grip. The redhead’s long fingers yanked the wires from him, brought them together and sparks flew. Of course they would -- it was Ian after all.

Just like that stolen car, Mickey could feel his dream hum to life under Ian’s fingertips. But deep down he knew that Ian wouldn't come all the way. Each time they changed a vehicle, the dream became more rusty, Gallagher’s smile faded, and Mickey’s spark waned.

With the last bite of his Kind bar, a couple of peanuts tumbled down his chest and landed in the bucket of water. The sound rippled throughout the cavernous garage. He crumpled the empty wrapper into a ball, shoved it back in his pocket. The sound of water splashing echoed off the walls as he dipped the mop and began washing the floor once again.

* * *

 

Mickey,

Break ups suck. Let Mel and Joy take you out on the town. I mean, it's gotta be better than staying at home and crying while masturbating. Not that I speak from experience.

Your sister's in town right now. She's doing well. Her hair's blonde and her face is shiny. She gets to travel a lot and meet new people.

Yesterday, we went to hang out with Yev and Svet. We spent some time talking about exes. Yev had nothing to offer on this topic so he went to sleep. You'll be happy to know that Mandy's got no interest in that giant yeti sized ex-boyfriend of hers. She said, "Kenyatta can suck it. I've never been more done with a human as I am done with him."

Svetlana ever tell you about her Russian husband? She got fed up that he couldn't hold down a job or bring in any money. So one day she packed a small bag and signed with Sasha's "employment agency." Two days later, she was drizzling lube on pricks in a musty Chicago massage parlor. America, land of fucking opportunity, right?

Last year her husband went all out Trojan War and came to the US looking for her, wanted to take her from the throuple, to take his wife back to Russia. Svet said seeing him again set off fireworks. "Every night was fourth of July in my panties," she said. Well, she's still here and he's not, so that didn't work out. I'm pretty sure she's heartbroken under all her cursing, but I can never really tell with her.

-Ian

 

* * *

 

Yev's picture

A round beige girl with a tangled heap of brown hair on her head stands off the center of the page. She is wearing a green blob. "MAya" is scribbled under her picture. 

 

* * *

 

To ex-husband with poor sense of smell and even worse standards of personal hygiene,

Yevgeny has a playmate, Maya. Her father is Marcus. He came to bar to eat tapas and get haircuts. Even we don't have tapas and haircuts anymore, he still comes. He used to ask me about Howdy Doody so I thought he was gay. Now I'm not so sure. He always suggests a play date for the children, and buys Shake Shack burgers for us. I think he wants to squeeze my tit but too scared to say so.

 

Svetlana

 

* * *

 

You fucking dickbreath loser,

Congratulations on your moronic prison break. I'm sure you're enjoying the finest that fugitive life has to offer down in tequilaville.

One of my dates took me to Paris last month. So I'm there at the Eiffel fucking Tower. I'm looking at it and I should be happy but all I can think of is that fucking house, Mickey. The more I look at the tower the harder it is for me to get that dump outta my head.

I was so frustrated, I start tearing up. My date sees this and says, "Beautiful, isn't it?" And I realized I'd never heard anyone describe something in my life as beautiful before. I began wailing right there. Snot running down my face and everything.

We both got out of that fucking hell hole alive. We fucking made it, ok. Don't feel bad about the shit you had to do to get there. Even if it's completely fucking stupid shit like pulling a Wentworth Miller impression.

I hope you never come back, Mick. You know I mean that in the best way possible.

Mandy


End file.
